


Besame Mucho

by spamanosky



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - World War II, Besame mucho, George Devalier, Hetalia, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Mentions of Death, World War II, auf wiedersehen sweetheart, mentions of torture, spamano - Freeform, tomato gang, veraverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28340388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spamanosky/pseuds/spamanosky
Summary: Antonio Fernandez, the love of Lovino Vargas' life, has just died. In memory of the man he spent decades with, Lovino writes of the horrific, beautiful events that brought them together.ORBesame Mucho, finished and told from the perspective of Lovino years after the war's end.
Relationships: Ancient Greece/Rome (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've changed a few things from the original. That creepy age difference is gone, the writing style is a bit different (I'm not George Devalier). Lovino is writing this because in Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart, it is briefly mentioned that he became a writer after the war. If you haven't checked out George Devalier's original works (Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart, Besame Mucho, We'll Meet Again, etc.) I seriously recommend doing so. They are well-written and exciting, and I'm pretty sure can be found on Wattpad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning also for language--it's Lovino, after all.

Antonio knew he was going to die. He knew in 1944, when those sick fucking bastards arrested him. Of course, he thought he was going to die right then and there, but as we all know, he had a few more years left in him. 

In the past few years, though, his health began to fail. He had been doing so well; I thought the age of respiratory and mental problems was over. Evidently not. Antonio would sit in the garden, rereading the same books over and over, as he was fond of doing. But every once in a while, he would look up with a grimace of pain, knowing exactly what was happening to him but not wanting to fuss over it. We both knew what the reduced appetite, difficulty waking up, and incessant coughing meant. But neither of us said anything. Antonio didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He didn’t want people to mourn him, not when there had already been such suffering in his life. 

Now that he’s gone, I can say that Antonio means… everything to me. He is everything to me. He saw so much suffering and bloodshed and violence and endured so much, and yet he still saw the good in everyone and still smiled so easily and readily at everyone. I don’t know many people who could do that. I love him. 

And yet I didn’t know what love was until I killed two people. Sometimes I hear the gunshot that took the first man’s life away, see his dead eyes rolling in his skull. Sometimes I see the warm, gushing blood spilling from the other’s body. Sometimes it disturbs me. Sometimes I feel I have no choice but to pray for forgiveness and mercy. Despite that, I can’t really say I regret what I did. Their unwilling sacrifices allowed me to have 28 years with Antonio. Honestly, I thank those poor bastards, wherever their souls have gone. Hell, probably. 

I am a writer, so I feel it only makes sense to cope with grief by writing. So here it is: a brief story about the kindest man I have ever known. 

~

When I met Antonio, spring was dragging out into the early weeks of June. The stifling heat that accompanies a central Italian summer had not yet arrived, and the green grass of the fields had not yet dried out into a crisp, blinding yellow. It was June 1939, and although the world was still a confusing ball of shit, there wasn’t a destructive world war to complicate things further. 

As a boy just short of his fifteenth birthday, I was in the Avanguardista. I assume most readers of this story were not teenage boys in Italy around the start of the war and therefore don’t know what the Avanguardista was. Maybe this analogy will work: the Avanguardista was Italy’s version of the Hitler Youth. It was essentially a miniature paramilitary organization designed to train children for the real deal: the military. As a brainwashed youth who had known nothing but the glory of il duce his whole life, I loved the Avanguardista. I loved the sense of power I felt with a gun in my hands. I loved the idea of being involved in something. Sure, I didn’t like all the push-ups, but the exciting uniforms we sometimes wore made up for it. 

On the day I met Antonio, Feliciano and I were walking home from the village, where we trained. At the time, my younger brother was thirteen. He never liked any sort of military anything. On this particular day, he was inconsolable over the poor state of his butt—being slapped with a long, nasty stick by a stiff military man was a common punishment for not marching properly or not saluting effectively enough. And Feliciano, who spent all of his time sitting in the grass picking flowers or singing under his breath in his admittedly beautiful voice, was always getting the stick. 

Feli cried all the way up to the house, complaining about every soldier, every government official, and every stick that had ever existed, as I tried—and failed—to comfort him. 

The farmhouse was small and white and dirty. The paint job was fading by the late ‘30s, but because of economic problems and a few bad seasons there had been neither the time nor the money to repaint it. Inside, the furniture was scratched, the curtains dusty, and the wooden floor creaky. The only nice part of the farmhouse was the garden. My brother loved that garden. Feli has a garden today only a few minutes from the place he grew up—never understood how he can do that—and the garden in our childhood home was alive with flowers and little crops and even a fig tree that Feliciano loved like a son. God, I miss that house. 

We stumbled up the creaky steps, glancing out over the distance before running inside. The farmhouse was built right on the edge of the slope of a hill and had a view overlooking the entire grassy valley. Sometimes I would watch the sunrise over the mountains from the garden. 

Inside, Papa was sitting at the table, engrossed in conversation. Strange. Papa would normally be out in the fields, planting or tending to crops that made money for wealthy landowners in Rome. Then I noticed who he was talking to. 

A mysterious stranger sat at the opposite end of the table from Papa. That was suspicious. No one sat in that chair. That was reserved for Mama, who died when Feliciano and I were very young. I can’t remember her now and I couldn’t remember her on the day this man sat in her chair, but based on photographs, she was a beautiful woman with thick curly hair and large black eyes, and based on the handmade bowls, plates, and flowerpots scattered around the house, she was also the best potter in the entirety of southern Europe. How dare this stranger sit where she sat? 

But a second, longer look at the man made my anger dissipate. He was handsome, that was for sure. He must’ve been sixteen or seventeen. He had curly brown hair in desperate need of a brush, and every few minutes he would run his hands through them in a clearly familiar gesture. He had a crooked smile plastered on his face in a way I could imagine he did nothing but smile. His eyebrows were thin and arched, giving him an eternal look of pleasant surprise. His skin was dark and tan, as if he lived in the warmth of the sun. But his eyes. Those were really what drew me in. They were large and bright and even after 34 years of knowing him I still couldn’t tell you what color they were—brown, green, maybe even tainted with yellow. And there was such a calm, gentle look in them. Those eyes were so wide and conveyed such pleasant emotions, as if he had never seen anything dark or disturbing and was eternally gazing at something peaceful and relaxing, like a painting by Renoir. Of course, this was not true, not even back then. By 1939, he had already seen things that no human ever should. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, this mysterious stranger was Antonio, and although 14-going-on-15 year-old me would deny it with every ounce of my being, I loved him even then. 

Papa broke off Antonio’s speech when we entered. Papa was the strongest man I ever knew. That applies in both physical strength and in manner. He looked like me—at least, people always remarked on the similarities—with thick, dark hair and dark, hooded eyes and a small, crooked nose, but much bigger and stronger and far more able to grow a beard. Papa was somewhat of a legend for young me. He was the youngest Italian to be promoted to Major during the First World War at the age of 25, and he led his soldiers to victory against the Germans and Austrians in the final stretches of the war. He had a deep scar on his shoulder from where he had been shot in 1917, and he kept the bullet in a case on the mantel above the fireplace. Around town, everyone loved Papa. Although his real name was Agostino—which he hated—everyone called him Roma, since he was the only man in town to come from Rome. Later, during the fight against fascism in our quiet village, he led hundreds of partisans alongside the Americans to victory. 

Papa cut off Antonio and greeted us as we entered the house. “Hello, boys! How was training?” 

“Who’s that?” I asked, as if the stranger sitting in Mama’s chair wasn’t there in front of us and listening. 

“This is Antonio Fernandez, one of the workers staying with us this season,” he explained. 

“Fernandez…” Feliciano repeated. “What a funny name!” I elbowed him. Antonio just laughed easily, evidently not fazed. 

“Antonio, these are my sons, Lovino and Feliciano.” Papa’s face was filled with pride as he introduced us. 

Antonio raised from Mama’s chair and extended a hand. I took a cautious step back, but Feliciano bounded over and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Feliciano!” Antonio said. 

“Hi!” Feli returned. “You talk funny.” I tried to glare at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

Again, Antonio didn’t seem bothered. “Yes, I’m sorry about the accent. I’m from Spain, so Italian isn’t my first language.” 

“Spain…” Feliciano was in awe, as if Antonio had just announced he was from Mars. Again, Antonio just laughed easily. I rolled my eyes. Someone else doting over my adorable younger brother, content to ignore me. 

I was wrong about that last assumption, though, because next thing I knew, Antonio was extending a hand to me. I didn’t take it, but that didn’t faze him. “Nice to meet you, too, Lovino.” 

I didn’t know how to respond. “Okay,” I managed. Feliciano giggled. 

“Why don’t you boys go make dinner?” Papa suggested. 

“Even Lovino?” Feliciano asked. “He’s just going to complain and get in our way.”

“Shut up!” I hissed. I don’t have any problem with cooking, but when Feli was in the kitchen, at least one pot or pan tended to come crashing to the floor in an explosion of brain-rattling noise. 

“Manners, Lovi,” Papa said. “And yes, Lovino, too. Well, go on.” 

Oh, alright. I could see what this was. He was kicking us out, so the ‘adults’ could have a ‘private talk.’ What could this Antonio hear that I couldn’t? He looked barely a year or two older than me!

I didn’t really feel like arguing or protesting or making a scene to get my way. I just shrugged, muttered “fine,” and shuffled off with my brother into the cramped kitchen, slamming the door behind us. 

The second it closed, I grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard, slid onto my knees on the tiled floor, held the wine glass to my ear, and pressed it against the door. I had no idea if this would do anything, but a character did it in a book I read, and if it didn’t help me hear, at least it would look exciting. In the end, with Feliciano clamoring around behind me with pots and pans and bowls, it didn’t make much of a difference. I was, however, able to catch a good bit of conversation. 

Antonio was weaving a fascinating tale about his life and about Spain. The longer he spoke, the more passionate and dramatic he grew, and the thicker his accent became. After every sentence, there was a long pause, as if he were translating the words into Italian. I could imagine him laying out each sentence in Spanish and rearranging it in Italian, as I did at the time with English. 

He spoke about his home in Madrid, about his mother raising him and his older sister in the absence of their father, about his grandparents’ residence in Paris. About the civil war, about a place called Guernica, about returning home to find his hometown riddled with bullets and leveled by bombs. About becoming an anti-fascist, about exploring leftist ideologies. I had never heard such things discussed before. From school, all I knew was that communism, socialism, and democracy were vaguely bad and that il duce was a heroic leader who had saved Italy from her weak, traitorous enemies and restored her into a glorious empire akin to the Roman Empire. At one point, Papa asked Antonio about his political beliefs. Was he a communist, a socialist, an anarchist? 

“I don’t know enough about those to be one of them,” Antonio answered apologetically. “I’ve never been the brightest.” 

As their talks of anti-fascism continued, I could tell Papa, who never spoke about his political beliefs, was just as fascinated as I was. 

“Tell me,” Papa said, “Why didn’t you just become a soldier? You seem to have a talent at being a leader.” 

Antonio laughed. “No, I’m no leader. I always got into trouble in school because I followed people I shouldn’t have.” Papa chuckled. I could tell he was growing fond of this young visitor. “But to answer your question: Other than being to young back then, I have seen what the military can do. Soldiers kill innocent people, Roma. I would die before I do that.” 

“I bet I could have followed that advice twenty-four years ago, when I joined the military,” Papa said. “But then again, I never would have received all these medals.” Antonio laughed again, sending a shiver up and down my spine.

“Are you supposed to be doing that?” Feliciano interrupted. “Why do you have a wine glass if you’re not drinking wine?”

“Shut up, I’m eavesdropping,” I retorted, knowing that he didn’t know what that meant.

Before he could ask, a glass slipped out of Feliciano’s hands and shattered into a million pieces on the floor. The conversation outside halted immediately. Goddamnit.

I had barely a second to spring away from the door and hide the wine glass behind my back as Papa peered in.

“Any casualties?” he asked. Feliciano nodded and pointed to the remains of the poor glass. As Papa stepped fully inside, the door hovered open for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of Antonio, still sitting in Mama’s chair. He was looking at me. He smiled; I glared and slammed the door.

Like I said, love at first sight.


	2. Chapter 2

The summer of 1939 was long and tedious, but the second it was over, I realized it hadn’t even lasted a minute. I continued training with the Avanguardista, shooting guns at still targets and marching in circles in the summer heat until the novelty was gone and I decided I didn’t ever want to be a soldier. So much for effective training.

I also spent my summer avoiding Antonio. A few weeks after he had arrived in our lives, I was lying in bed one rainy night and imagining him sleep in the guest room across the hallway. His curly hair messy, his stunning eyes filled with pleasant dreams, his lips twisted into a small, drowsy smile. And then it hit me.

So I avoided him. I pretended there was no one living in our house but us. My brother was obviously oblivious, but I’m sure Papa noticed. As he didn’t ask me about it, I suppose he just chalked it up to be being a moody teenager, as he always did when I was upset.

For my 15th birthday on June 14, I received a book from Papa: The Hobbit. As I’m sure you know, Antonio was always a fan of Tolkien’s. He read and reread the Lord of the Rings about half a dozen times. Even back then, he loved his fantastical works.

One afternoon in mid-June, I recall returning home from our meeting with the Avanguardista at the same time that Papa, Antonio, and the other workers were stumbling up the hills, exhausted from a hard day’s work. It was a stifling hot, oppressively dry day, and everyone was soaked in sweat. I didn’t want to be around a mass of obnoxious, loud men, so I slipped inside the house, grabbed the Hobbit from my nightstand, left out the back door, and sat on the other side of the house to read with only the accompaniment of the flowers and the view of the mountains.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

It was a lazily warm afternoon, and I was perfectly content to just sit and read without a care or thought in the world. Eventually, though, I became aware of a figure leaning against the white picket fence, smoking a cigarette, and gazing towards the distant mountains with wide eyes enthralled by the beauty of what he saw. Antonio. But he didn’t seem to notice me, so I continued reading.

Just as Bilbo agreed to go on the quest with Thorin and the other dwarves, he finally turned in my direction and jolted in surprise when he noticed me. “I love the Hobbit!” he exclaimed. For a second, I thought that maybe he was just making small talk, but one look in his direction told me that he was delighted I was reading that particular book.  
“It’s only alright,” I said, continuing to read.

Antonio pointed at the cover with his cigarette. “Where did you find an English book like that?”

I still refused to look up. “I don’t know. Papa gave it to me. For my birthday.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his eyes rise higher than they typically were. “Your birthday?” he asked, politely interested. “I didn’t know I missed it. Happy birthday!” I looked up to meet his gaze, unsure what to say.

“Thanks.” I clenched my teeth. I sounded awkward, didn’t I? I always sounded awkward.

“And how old did you turn this year?”

“Fifteen,” I said. “On June 14th.”

Antonio exhaled a mouthful of smoke and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Fifteen,” he muttered. He shook his head, took a long draw on his cigarette, and stared above the roof at a sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. With my eyes now scanning his face, I could see that I had been reading long enough for him to freshen himself up and change into a fresh pair of clothes, albeit shabby and worn. His hair was still wet, a few shades darker with water.

“I overheard you talking with Papa,” I finally said.

“Oh?” His face was back to its typical pleasantly surprised look.

“There is going to be a war, isn’t there?”

Antonio furrowed his eyebrows and thought. “Probably.”

I nodded shortly and promptly announced, “Right. Well. I guess I’ll just have to join the army then.”

Antonio laughed softly but faltered when he realized I was serious. “The army? Well, you still have a few years until then. And what will you be fighting for?”

What a strange question. “…For Italy, obviously.”

“Hmm.” Antonio thought a long time before speaking. Again, I wondered if it was because of the difference in language. Another lungful of smoke was exhaled and hung uncertainly and uncomfortably in the air. “Sometimes joining the army is not the best way to fight for your country.”

“I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will.” Antonio flicked his ash on the ground and stared at it. “War is not exciting, Lovino. I hope you do not make the mistake of thinking so before you see it.” I raised an eyebrow. What the hell did he know? Papa’s medals and war stories seemed to suggest the Great War had been the most exciting time of his life.

I continued to study Antonio’s suddenly somber face. I had eavesdropped during quite a few conversations between him and Papa, always when the other workers were not present and always when they thought ‘us kids’ weren’t listening. They spoke of topics I had never heard discussed out loud: the civil war in Spain, anti-fascism, Nazi Germany… It had become clear early on that Antonio did not share the conformist beliefs I had been told to follow. A silence had grown between us. It lingered for a few minutes, broken only by the gentle blowing of wind and the rhythmic humming of insects.

“Can I have a cigarette?” I asked finally.

Antonio laughed. “No.”

“Fuck you, bastard!” I said, although I didn’t really mean it. Antonio didn’t seem offended, only amused. He tossed his dying cigarette on the ground and crushed it.

As he left, I could hear him mutter something under his breath with a shake of his head. It was so quiet I almost didn’t catch it. “Fifteen…” 

~

I continued to ignore Antonio until it became second nature to slip out the door when he entered a room, flee inside when he came out into the garden to smoke and gaze at the horizon, and pretend to be deaf when he asked me a question. Although the bastard was oblivious to my hints at first, within a few weeks he caught on and began to reciprocate my avoidance until I was suddenly afraid he was the one avoiding me. He would apologize when he walked in on me reading, was always sure to give me my space at dinner, and overall treated me with distant civility. I was annoyed at his kindness and respect. I wanted him to just… force me to interact with him, even if I denied it.

It wasn’t always possible to avoid him, though. Often he would join us for dinner, where he would tell funny stories, compliment Feliciano’s cooking, and laugh at everything. Sometimes, when my family and I ventured into town on market days (Tuesdays and Saturdays), he would accompany us to meet with his new friends or have a drink in the bar.

One Saturday, Antonio joined us to go to the village. As I strayed behind my family and kicked rocks in the dirt, I occasionally found myself watching him. Antonio seemed to revert to a blissfully unaware and happy child on days such as these. The gentle breeze tousled his curly hair, he strolled with hands stuffed in his pockets carelessly, and his tuneless whistling was carried back to me on the wind. When Feliciano stopped to climb his favorite oak tree, Antonio scrambled up beside him, much to his delight. I had to force the smile off my face.

In the village square, Feliciano set his sights on the fountain, as usual. That fountain… It was a rather gorgeous thing, really, skillfully designed with Renaissance-style cherubs that shot water out of their pouting lips, the bottom filled with thousands of coins upon which lofty, hopeful wishes were placed. It was a centerpiece of village life. It was into this fountain that Papa had thrown that bastard Vaccaro after he called Mama a bitch—even after nearly twenty years, this story was legendary. It was into this fountain that Ardito threw himself each night, screaming nonsensically in Neapolitan and scooping up handfuls of coins. As children, Feliciano and I would always laugh, but someone, whether it was Papa or someone stumbling out of the Cantina Camila, would always toss their jackets over his shoulders and scold him for swimming in the filthy water with a pitiful look in their eyes.

“Papa, can Lovino and I have a coin to throw in?” Feliciano asked as he always did.

Feeling Antonio’s gaze on me, I felt the need to establish myself as a mature young man. “You throw coins in; I don’t do that anymore,” I said quickly.

Feliciano looked at me curiously. “Yes, you do,” he said quickly. “You did it last week, remember?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No!”

“Yes, you wished for a guitar, like you always do…”

“Boys, stop arguing and throw the damn coins in!” Papa interrupted, and we both fell silent.

Antonio, meanwhile, had fished out a beat-up little coin from his pocket. “I think I’ll throw one in, too!” he remarked with a beam.

“Ooh, what will you wish for?” Feliciano asked.

Antonio raised a finger and spoke in a dramatic voice. “Ah, but if you tell anyone your wish, it won’t come true!” Feliciano’s face lit up in fascination. I rolled my eyes.  
Before the two bumbling idiots could make their wishes, Papa held out a hand, gesturing for us to stop. Eyebrows furrowed, lips folded into a strict frown, I could imagine him in a trench, ready to shout orders to hundreds of brave soldiers. He could really be intimidating if he wanted to.

“Papa?” I asked cautiously.

“Do you hear that?” Feliciano asked, his voice low.

“Off the road,” Papa demanded calmly, and we followed him to stand in a huddle near the nearby bakery door.

A faint, even sound echoed in the distance, probably from another street. It sounded like livestock being herded down a cobblestone road… No. As the sound grew louder, I realized it was too even and organized to be cows or sheep or any other animal, for that matter. It sounded like… marching.

Sure enough, a dozen or so men dressed in sleek black uniforms rounded a corner and marched into view. Their faces emotionless, their guns held threateningly by their sides, their glossy boots and jackets cleaned meticulously, it reminded me of the military displays to celebrate Italy’s victory over the Abyssinians a few years before. A whole squadron of Blackshirts had marched all through town, barely suppressed smiles concealed on their faces as they walked to the tune of uproarious cheers. But there had been no military victory now. Nothing worth celebrating. And these Blackshirts didn’t seem cheerful over some foreign triumph.

I glanced at Papa and Antonio. Papa’s face was devoid of all emotion. He looked older, the lines on his face more visible, as if he were stressed or… upset. Antonio, meanwhile, couldn’t seem to control his anger. His face twisted in disgust, a livid fire burning in those beautiful eyes. I had heard his brief descriptions of the civil war in Spain, and I knew that Italian Fascist forces had aided the Nationalists and helped secure Franco’s place as dictator. I also knew that that meant Antonio hated the Blackshirts with a burning passion.

“Papa?” I asked uncertainly. “What are they doing here?” In our little corner of Italy, soldiers and Blackshirts were not particularly common, although we had seen them on occasion.

“Lovino, Feliciano, go into the Cantina Verde,” he said, not taking his eyes off the marching Blackshirts. A few cheers erupted from a group of avid fascists across the street.

“But I want to see what…”

“Go.”

“Please, I really want…”

“Lovino!” I flinched at the sudden shout. Papa rarely raised his voice. His intimidating figure and deep, authoritative voice were usually enough to do the trick. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. His voice was calmer when he spoke again. “Lovino, go into the Cantina Verde. You’ll take care of your brother, won’t you?”

I glanced at Feliciano. His eyes were trailing those flaunted guns with distrust and barely concealed fear. Now Papa was playing dirty. Of course I’d watch over Feli. “Fine,” I said, surrendering. I extended my hand for Feliciano to take. “We’ll be in the bar waiting.”

As we turned down a side road, the marching growing fainter and fainter, I could hear Antonio ask another bystander what these Blackshirts were doing here on such a fine, uneventful afternoon.

“Didn’t you hear? Signora Zini’s husband found communist propaganda in her drawer. They’re taking her away to prison.” I could hear the man spit a blob of saliva on the road. 

“Serves her right. Fucking bitch.”

I shivered and dragged Feliciano along quicker until I couldn’t hear any marching or any spitting anymore.

~

A quarter of an hour later, I sat bored, discarded, in the Cantina Verde, a local bar owned by two of Papa’s old friends, Carmela and Alfredo. My only consolation was that I could imagine myself as a character in a crime novel I had read. The empty bar was thrown in an eerie, golden light from the dim lamps, a sweet-voiced singer crooned from a scratchy radio, and I could easily pretend my coca cola was something much stronger.

When we entered the bar, having been kicked out of Papa and Antonio’s conversation, Feliciano politely asked Carmela for a lemonade, and remarking fondly on his sweet demeanor, she had obliged. I mimicked Feliciano’s kindness, but when receiving my own drink, wasn’t faced with such affection.  
Papa and Antonio had stormed into the Cantina Verde not a moment later and Papa instantly asked Carmela whether she would like to talk in the back room about something serious. Antonio had also received an invitation. They all disappeared through the back door. Antonio had smiled and winked when he caught me staring as he closed the door behind him. Great. I was being ignored and left out, as usual. I clenched my jaw, thinking about the way Papa had unceremoniously ordered me into the bar. I was even more incensed at myself for listening.

I quickly grew bored with sitting at the bar and imagining I was some sort of serious, skilled detective on a mission like the main character in a book I had once read. I slipped out of my chair and joined Feliciano at a table next to the radio. In between sips of his lemonade, he sang along with the singer. His voice was admittedly gorgeous.

“What are you drinking?” he asked when I pulled up a chair next to him. “I have lemonade.”

“Coca cola.” For a second, I was worried he would turn a question as simple as “What are you drinking” into a full drawn-out conversation, as he often did. Fortunately, he just nodded.

“I don’t like coca cola. Too spicy.” And he went back to singing under his breath.

A few minutes of listening to this breathy singer and I had grown tired of it. I tried to change the station, maybe to the news or another such program, but Feliciano grabbed my wrist. I tried to break free, but as I have always hated admitting, my younger brother was stronger than me.

“Hey!” Feli protested. “I was listening to that!”

“We have a radio at home. Listen there.”

“But you live at home, too.”

I opened my mouth, wracking my brain to find an angry retort, but finally gave up. I surrendered reluctantly and stood from the table. No point trying to argue over the radio. I returned to the bar, but just as I was about to sit down, a steadily rising voice, followed by a few shushes, piqued my attention. In the back room, a heated conversation was brewing. I left my coca cola on the bar and wandered silently to the door, pressing my ear against it to hear inside. Papa was speaking in a deep, serious voice.

“Maybe as soon as next year.”

“That soon?” Antonio.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Just look at Czechoslovakia,” Carmela piped in. “Britain and France aren’t going to appease Hitler forever.”

Antonio cursed quietly in Spanish. “If war begins anytime soon…”

“Afraid you’ll have to fight?” Papa asked, clearly amused.

Antonio laughed nervously. “Yes.”

“There is no convenient time for war,” Papa declared. “That being said, I am worried what a potential war means for Feliciano and Lovino.”

“They’ll be of age soon, won’t they?” Carmela remarked.

“Lovi will be eighteen in 1942, Feli in ’43.”

“But a war wouldn’t last that long, would it?” I couldn’t help but notice the barely concealed anxiety that had slipped into Antonio’s voice.

Carmela laughed humorlessly. “That’s what we all said when the Great War broke out.”

Papa sighed. “This country was so much better before Mussolini.” As an indoctrinated youth who had known nothing but fascism and il duce his entire life, I had to stifle a gasp. 

How could my own father say such a thing? “If Eleni were still here, and if I didn’t have my sons to look after, I might do something drastic.” There were choruses of support and agreement from Antonio and Carmela.

Something drastic… What was that supposed to mean? Drastic as in glaring at passing Blackshirts and calling in resistance or drastic as in approaching Mussolini with a loaded gun? It was strange to hear my father’s typically serious but collected voice so riddled with anger, but it made me feel sick to my stomach to think of what would happen if Papa tried to do “something drastic.” Perhaps Nazi Germany’s horrific crimes against dissidents are more famous today, but Fascist Italy still enacted violence against its opponents. It was never spoken about openly, but everyone knew what happened to anti-fascists who dared express their beliefs. Many of them were never seen again.

The conversation ended rather abruptly without the proper conclusion I had expected, and the door swung open before I was prepared to jump back and act natural. I stumbled backwards into a table and tried to pretend I hadn’t heard the whole incriminating conversation. Carmela and even Antonio didn’t seem to notice me, but Papa’s eyes flashed with concern as they brushed over me.

After Carmela returned to operating the bar and waiting for customers, Antonio excused himself to go meet with some new friends in the town square. Papa collected Feliciano from the table, and we left through the back door into the alleyway.

“You go ahead,” Papa told Feli. “Lovino and I have to talk.” Feliciano seemed curious as to what I had possibly done to warrant that, but Papa made a shooing motion with his hand, and he left.

For a second, I racked my brain for any recent incidents. As quiet and standoffish as I was around other people, I still had a reputation with schoolteachers and nuns (practically the same thing at the sole school in the village) for arguing with classmates. Once, I got into a fight with Giovanni Marcadi, although in my defense he insulted Feliciano, and as his older brother, only I was allowed to do that. When my brother got into trouble, it was typically for refusing to participate in military drills and activities with the Avanguardista, or because he was daydreaming in class. But judging from the strict look on Papa’s face, it wasn’t fights with classmates or being rude to a teacher.

Papa spoke in a threatening, low voice. “Did you hear any of that?”

I tried to look confused. I didn’t like being lectured. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Papa.”

Papa grabbed my upper arm and pulled me farther into the dark recesses of the alleyway, where no one would overhear our conversation. Although I knew he would never hurt me, his grip was painfully strong. He grabbed the sides of my face and forced me to look at him.

“Lovino Vargas, you have to be completely honest with me. Did you hear any of that conversation?”

There was no use in lying. He wouldn’t have dragged me back here unless he knew I had eavesdropped. “I heard a bit,” I admitted sheepishly.

“You’re a smart boy, Lovino. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that if you repeat any of those sentiments or tell anyone what I said, they’ll take me, and you, and maybe even Feliciano, away.”

I swallowed. “Take us where?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Do I look like I’m playing games?” Now I wasn’t speaking to my beloved father, I was speaking to the youngest Italian major of the Great War, the man who commanded hundreds of troops. “I said, if you repeat those sentiments, they will take you, and me, and maybe even Feliciano, away. We may never see each other again.”  
That did it. My breathing picked up and I could feel my eyes begin to sting. “Do you understand me, Lovino?”

“Yes, Papa.” I flinched when my voice came out weak and shaky.

Papa’s eyes softened and he wrapped me in a tight hug. I stood frozen, hands by my side, still trying to process “something drastic” and my family being arrested because of me.  
“Oh, Lovino,” Papa said. “I know that even though you are so smart, smarter than I’ll ever be, this is all very confusing. But one day it will all make sense, I hope.” He held me for a moment longer, then let go and rested a hand on my shoulder, eyes scanning my face as if he wouldn’t ever see me again. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that Roma isn’t yet part of the Resistance. This is because the Resistance didn’t exist back then. It was only formed after the German invasion of Italy in 1943, so we’ll have to wait for later chapters to see some action within the Resistance.  
> I decided to make Roma their dad instead of grandpa because I thought that Hima should have made Roma their dad due to historical reasons.  
> “Britain and France won’t appease Hitler forever”: In the 1930s, Britain and France adopted a policy of appeasement, that is, allowing Hitler to take things (such as Czechoslovakia). This was done in order to avoid another destructive war.  
> Eleni = the name I’ve given APH Ancient Greece, their mother. This is a Greek version of Helen or Elena.  
> Fun fact: the Hobbit was written in 1932.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief delay! I had computer issues, but it's fixed now :)

I was reading again. On these long, unending summer days, there was nothing to do but lounge in the garden and try to read through the suffocating heat. I would much rather take a nap in my room, but inside it was even more miserable. I had found a spot under the fig tree that sheltered me from the tireless, incessant sun. Feliciano had gone to the market, and Papa… I was not quite sure where Papa was. Probably the Cantina Verde, talking in hushed tones with Carmela and Alfredo about subjects I was forbidden from hearing. Antonio was likely also in town, having a drink with his new friends. He had continued with his distant politeness, and I wasn’t sure whether this was a relief or an annoyance. Both, if I think about it. 

The words of the Hobbit filtered in one ear and danced out the other. I found myself reading the same sentence over and over again, until I realized there was no point. I began absent-mindedly flicking through the pages, gathering scattered words and names every other chapter. Soon, I started singing under my breath. I sang quietly, as though even in this empty garden someone might overhear and ridicule me. At first a collection of mere gentle hums, it took me a second to recognize what I was singing. It was a French song I had heard Antonio singing many times under his breath. In fact, so many times had I quietly listened to his incessant whistling or humming of this particular tune that I had accidentally engrained it into my memory. Although I didn’t know the name of the piece back then, I know now it is called ‘Poeme’ and the version Antonio liked was by Tino Rossi. Antonio has always had great influence over the music I come to love. 

As I lost myself in the pleasant tune, smiled in quiet reverie, and felt a gentle breeze caress my hair. As I concluded my brief, soft rendition of the song, I began to feel someone else’s presence in the garden. I opened my eyes and still trapped in a drowsy, dreamy state, was sure I was still in the grips of sleep or lost in a dream. There stood Antonio, smiling, his eyes twinkling. I sat up and leaned against the tree trunk.

“You sing so beautifully, Lovino!” he exclaimed. “You put Monsieur Rossi to shame!”

I brushed my hair behind my ear in a flustered, embarrassed gesture. “Don’t lie,” I said, my face burning. 

“I would never lie to you,” Antonio murmured.

“You’re back,” I observed. “From the village.”

“Yes.” Antonio glanced pointedly at the ground beside me. “May I?”

I nodded, and Antonio sat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, dry summer air.

“Papa’s not home.” I don’t know what possessed me to break the uncomfortable silence.

“That’s alright,” Antonio said.

I nodded. The silence went on until I felt the need to break it. “Feli is at the market.” 

“Oh, is he?”

I nodded again. Such an unimportant, meaningless conversation, yet I grudgingly admitted to myself that I felt a little less lonely with Antonio by my side. “Will you have dinner with us?” I immediately regretted asking. Why was I being so friendly to him, so welcoming?

“Lovino!” he exclaimed, a delighted smile spreading across his face. “How nice of you to ask! I’d love to!”

“Don’t go having a heart attack over it,” I grumbled. “It’s just Papa and Feliciano really like when you’re around.”

“Well, of course!” I hated that—that flexibility, that calmness, that amiability. For once I almost wished he’d get upset at someone, snap in a debate, do something, anything, that wasn’t kind and friendly. I’d get plenty of that later on, and by the time I saw the dark side of Antonio, I wished I hadn’t. 

“What were you doing in the village?” I asked, hoping my interest didn’t seep into my voice. I had seen Antonio with a few of the young men and women in town. He always seemed like he was having a grand old time. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to join him and his friends or stand back and envy them.

“I was fighting off intruders!” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Invaders from the north!”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” I grumbled. “I don’t really care anyway.”

Antonio frowned. “Oh, you’re no fun. My friend was visiting Italy and he stopped here for the afternoon. Not nearly as interesting, is it?”

My mind lingered on that first sentence. There was my healthy introduction of negative emotions from Antonio—he’d told me I was no fun. “So I’m boring then?”

Antonio turned his head sharply, perplexed. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, you said I’m no fun. So, I’m boring. This must be so tedious for you to have a conversation with me…” 

Antonio laughed. “Oh, Lovino, you’re many things, but boring is not one of them, I can tell you that. I’m always waiting to see what you’ll do or say. And just when I think I’ve gotten you all figured out, bam! You go and surprise me.”

I glared and opened my mouth to respond angrily. I couldn’t manage it. “Shut up,” I said finally.

There was a brief silence as Antonio followed my order. Eventually, though, he couldn’t seem to keep himself from talking. “My friend was in Italy, so he stopped by the village on his way to Rome to see me one last time.” I turned to look at him. His arched eyebrows were furrowed, his crooked lips twisted into a pitiful frown.

“What do you mean ‘one last time?’” I asked curiously.

“Yes.” Through his apparent sadness, the tiniest smirk appeared on his lips, but I didn’t catch it until it was too late. “My long lost lover.” He sighed dramatically. “He came by to cut things off entirely, since, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I’m marrying a lovely French girl this fall.”

My eyes widened and I began to choke on air, shocked at how such a statement, spoken so casually and nonchalantly, affected me so.

“Lovino, Lovino, I’m joking, I’m joking! Don’t choke.” Antonio’s anxious words broke through the haze that had clouded my surroundings in an impending sense of doom. “I was only joking, Lovino; there’s no French girl and that wasn’t my long lost lover…”

I took a deep steadying breath and silently ran through a long list of curse words in my head. “I don’t care!” I mumbled. I looked down at my discarded book and flipped through a few pages, trying to find something to do with my hands. “I was just… I was just surprised that anyone would want to marry you, bastard.” I closed my eyes and held my breath. Fortunately, Antonio didn’t laugh at my embarrassment. 

“It was Francis. An old friend of mine I knew in Paris. That was the friend I visited in town.” Antonio smiled softly. “He was traveling to Rome and stopped on the way to see me.”

“And why do you sound so upset about that?” I asked. Antonio’s eyes were filled with a distant pain.

He sighed. “Because we talked a lot about Gilbert,” he explained. “Another old friend. A German.” He chuckled. “But he wouldn’t like me saying that. He always considered himself Prussian. Anyways, he always used to get into trouble. With teachers at school, with his father, and most recently, with the police.” Antonio closed his eyes. “Apparently, he got into some serious trouble for treating a Jewish man with basic human decency. As a punishment, he was forced to choose between joining the NSDAP—the Nazis—or prison. He chose the former.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “Your friend’s a Nazi?”

“No, no. No, he’s just a misguided idiot.” Antonio sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that explaining it to me. “He was forced to join, but since then, at least according to Francis, he’s been brainwashed. When he comes of age next year, he wants to join the military.”

I peered at him curiously. Hitler was always presented as a positive figure on the radio, in school, during conversations. Yet Antonio seemed to hate him. “Why don’t you like the Nazis?” I asked. “Or fascism?”

Antonio didn’t answer at first. His eyes darkened and he seemed to be conflicted, as if debating with himself about something. He leaned back against the tree trunk and folded his legs. “I’ve always just kind of lived without a care in the world,” he began softly. “I’ve always tried to accept things, even if they seem hopeless. I’ve looked at the positive side of things. I coped with anything bad in my life with blind optimism and hope.” Antonio closed his eyes and lowered his voice until it was barely higher than a whisper. “But that was before.” 

“Before what?” I asked apprehensively.

Antonio slowly opened his eyes and stared blankly at the rows of flowers and herbs. “It was two years ago now. April 1937. I visited home—Madrid—and then I stopped in the Basque country in northern Spain. My cousin, Peru, lives there. He is an anarchist, and back then he tried to urge me to join the cause and fight. But I had no interest in politics, no interest in debates, no interest in religion. I was there to spend some time with family and visit home again. I was there to flirt with pretty girls and boys in bars and dance and eat good food. One day, Peru and I went to a town nearly untouched by the war. Guernica.”

My heart jumped. “You’ve mentioned Guernica before. To Papa.” Antonio nodded. “What happened there?”

Antonio clenched his fists and swallowed heavily. “It was such a beautiful day. It was market day, so everyone was outside. Peru and I were talking and walking down the street when we heard it. I didn’t recognize the sound, and even though he was a soldier, Peru didn’t, either. We looked up and saw planes heading straight for the town. I didn’t know what was going on. And then… and then…” Antonio furrowed his brow and shook his head at the ground, as if still trying to comprehend what had happened on that day. “Everything just… exploded. I couldn’t even think. It was Peru who dragged me to a doorstep where we would be covered—he was used to loud sounds like grenades and gunfire. I didn’t realize what was going on, until suddenly I knew. They were bombing. The planes were dropping bombs. I could see people fall to the ground—bullets. There was so much blood whenever they were hit.” Antonio’s fists shook. “It was all over the streets. They were red.” He laughed bitterly. “They were shooting bullets, can you believe that?” His voice became faint. “I was so scared. I knew Peru was, too. We just cowered in that doorway. 

“And finally, it ended. Just like that. We sat there for a while longer. It took so long to move. And then… then the screams began. I didn’t know where we were going; we just walked mindlessly. I wanted to help, but…”

Antonio paused and stared blankly at the horizon, taking deep, steadying breaths. “There were too many people. They were bleeding, dying, missing arms or legs, burned… And the smell. I can’t forget the smell. It smelled like cooked meat. There had been a small flock of sheep herded into town. They were all burned, and so was the sheepherder. I can’t eat lamb or anything anymore, because then I think of that terrible smell.” Antonio laughed humorlessly. “Isn’t that strange? Out of everything that I saw and felt and experienced, I remember that smell the most. I will never, ever forget it…” 

“My God,” I whispered. “But…why? Were there soldiers there, or…?”

“No.” Antonio shook his head and gave a mirthless laugh. “It was an experiment.”

My stomach twisted in nausea. “An… experiment? What do you  
mean?”

“A test for the German government’s air force. To see what they were capable of. To see if they could destroy a whole city. To see how many people they could kill. And it was Franco—the man in charge of Spain today—who let him in. To slaughter his own people.”

I didn’t know what to say. Words like ‘I’m sorry’ seemed so useless, so hopeless in this situation. How could Antonio witness such horrific things and still walk around with a bright smile, with a joyous laugh, with such a positive outlook on life? I knew that if I were in such a position, I would have lost all my faith in humanity and been done with it. 

“I never used to care about the government,” Antonio continued. “I never used to care about politics. I guess in a way I still don’t. All I know is that if I can do anything to save innocent lives, I will take it. And I’m still trying to find a way to do that. A way to help people.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice shaky and uncertain. “I never knew… I never…”

“I wish you didn’t have to know, Lovino,” he said seriously. “And maybe you still shouldn’t, but… I thought you should know why I  
am against fascism. And why I think it is so wrong.”

“Oh.” I could feel a sort of grudging admiration spring in my heart. I found it impressive, how Antonio could survive something such as that and still come out of it bright and cheerful and happy. I felt a sort of shame build up inside me. I knew I could never be so brave. I knew I could never be such a kind person. I had never witnessed such atrocities, I had never watched someone take the life of another human being, and yet I still found it difficult to see the good in people. Yet Antonio, having gone through things no human ever should, was so friendly, so kind, so warm towards everyone around him. How? How could he do it? I wished I could be like that. 

With nothing to say, I flipped the pages of The Hobbit and read random sentences and words I caught. Quiet seconds turned into minutes and the summer breeze continued to roam around the valley. The scent of the lavender Feliciano had planted was carried on the wind. I lost track of the time until Antonio spoke again.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Lovino.” 

“No,” I said quickly, focusing on my book.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to… to make you feel bad.”

“No,” I repeated. “You… That’s brave.” Antonio turned to face me curiously and my face burned painfully and brightly. “I mean, I think that you were…brave for that. For getting through that.” I thought about Antonio’s constant kindness in spite of so many injustices. “I… Yeah,” I finished somewhat lamely. For some reason, I didn’t feel I could put those feelings into words.  
Antonio looked at me hopefully, waiting for me to finish, but when I never did, he simply smiled. “Thank you, Lovino. That means a lot.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow, tranquil haze of fragments of The Hobbit that I couldn’t absorb, quiet, somewhat awkward conversation, and  
gentle melodies carried to my ears on the wind from Antonio’s lips. When Papa returned home, he seemed glad to see Antonio and I apparently becoming friends.  
Antonio followed him into the house, probably for another private conversation I wasn’t allowed to hear. Instead of following them inside and eavesdropping, I  
opted to sit alone in the garden with my book and with the silence. I had heard enough for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besame Mucho clearly isn’t the only song Antonio and Lovino like! Here’s a link to the song Lovino sings under his breath in this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bt3Z18MvtQ   
> Fun Fact: Tino Rossi was a French singer popular in the 30s and 40s. Because he lived in France at one point in this time, Antonio would likely be a fan of Monsieur Rossi.   
> Peru is my OC for HWS Basque. The Basque people live in northern Spain and many have been fighting for independence for a long, long time. Peru is the Basque version of Peter or Pedro.


	4. Chapter 4

After a few weeks of cautiously avoiding eavesdropping to avoid hearing of horrifying things like the bombing of Guernica, I resumed my spying on Papa and Antonio’s occasional conversations, whether from the hallway or the kitchen or while trying to act like I was engrossed in a book. The ideas they discussed presented me with new topics I had never even considered before. It intrigued me to hear points of view I had never even heard spoken about before, and it both fascinated and horrified me to listen to illegal conversations. 

“Why do you want to hear them so bad, Lovino?” I hadn’t even noticed Feliciano was growing suspicious. He peered at me curiously as he watched me lean against the door. 

“Shut up, Feli,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. Feliciano promptly dropped a pan, which cut off a few words Papa was speaking but effectively drew his attention away. 

This evening, my typical fascinated-frightened combination was replaced by a dark hole that opened up in my stomach. As I listened to Antonio apologetically reveal that he had to leave Italy, the hole grew deeper and bigger and more painful. But I listened quietly as he explained that he had started work on the farm for money, and he’d obtained it. Plus, he was beginning to feel homesick for France, the country he’d come to love. 

“Of course, kid,” was Papa’s relaxed response to this horrible piece of news. “Go home to your family. And if you are ever in Italy, you must visit.” 

I could practically see Antonio’s remorseful smile. “Of course,” he said. “But with the way things are going in the world right now, it might be difficult.” 

I understood instantly what Antonio really meant. If I translated his words from apologetic politeness to blunt honesty, he was just saying, “I’m leaving and never coming back.” Of course, we both know this assumption was ridiculous and ultimately untrue, but in my devastated mind blinded by a perceived betrayal, it seemed perfectly logical. 

The wine glass I was using for my espionage slipped from my grasp and shattered on the floor, and my hands rushed to my ears in an attempt to quell the chaos in my suddenly overwhelmed brain. Feliciano immediately dropped what he was doing. 

“Lovino, are you okay?” 

I ignored his concerned stare, rose weakly to my feet, and pushed my way through the back door and into the garden. The warm August air hit me in the face as soon as I stepped outside, and I welcomed it into my lungs as if I hadn’t had a breath of fresh air in months. I fell against the wall, sank to the ground, and tried to relax. My face burned as I thought about my reaction to Papa and Antonio’s conversation. Why did it bother me so much? By then, I had long established how I felt about Antonio and about both boys and girls. Even if he left, there would be other men and women that would enter my life. Why him? Why Antonio? He was infuriatingly cheerful and obnoxious and he cared about stupid things like impressionism and the Hobbit and Shakespeare and the Wizard of Oz and HG Wells. Soon my internal bashing of Antonio became indistinguishable from an admittance of love. 

“You always do that.” 

I gasped, stumbled away from the voice, and walked backwards into the fig tree. As I tried to shake the pain away from my now-red, bark-covered hand, Antonio’s smile faded. 

“Jesus Christ,” I managed weakly. 

He tried to approach me and take my wounded hand, concerned that his sudden arrival had unintentionally maimed me. I jerked away from him and stumbled right back into the tree. 

“It’s okay, Lovino,” he said. He was mocking me, wasn’t he? “It’s just me.” I managed to meet his gaze, but he wasn’t teasing at all. His concern was genuine, real. No ridicule. No amusement at my overreaction. 

“Don’t sneak up on people like that.” 

“Sorry.” Antonio leaned against the wall and slid down until he sat peacefully with his hands in his lap. I joined slowly, a few cautious feet away. 

“What do I always do?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You said I always do that. What do I always do?” 

“Play guitar in your mind.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded. 

Antonio smiled. “When you’re thinking a lot or stressed out, you shake your hand like you’re strumming a guitar.” 

“Oh.” It was such an old habit that I hardly noticed when I was doing so.

“Maybe you’d be a good guitar player,” he said. “I heard your brother mention that you want a guitar someday.” 

“Don’t mock me,” I said. 

“Never, Lovino.” Antonio looked genuinely affronted that I would ever even suggest such a thing. A few moments of silence passed. Antonio rolled himself a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. I tried not to show any interest in him, instead gazing at the distant hills, which were just dark shapes in the early evening light. 

“You’re leaving.” 

“Yes.” A cloud of smoke hung out of his mouth alongside the word. 

“Why?” 

Antonio furrowed his brows as he searched for the words. “A lot of things,” he said finally. “I’ve earned good money, but more than that.” He shook his head, a sudden smile on his face. “Eighteen years old, and I still don’t know how to act.” Huh. At least now I knew how old he was. “I’ve always had trouble with, well, trouble. I guess I’m supposed to get into trouble, though, after all, I’m eighteen and young and…” 

“I didn’t ask for your life story, bastard.” 

Antonio laughed. It was so easy and relaxed that I couldn’t help but respond in kind. “No. No, you didn’t.” He waited for the laughter to fade before speaking again. “I have done something bad. No, not bad, illegal.” I looked at him curiously. “Seeing those Blackshirts made me think and… I am against fascism, as you know, and--I have books. Newspapers. Pamphlets. Owning them could get me and your family… in trouble.” 

“Oh.” I swallowed. Antonio nodded at his shoes. “So it’s not me.” Instantly my face burned and I wished I could take it back. But it was too late for that, so I pressed on. 

“Of course not,” Antonio said. “What makes you think that?” 

I took a deep breath. “I’m not stupid. You look at me all the time but you always pretend not to when I look back or when Papa’s around.” 

Antonio hummed softly to himself. “You’re fifteen.” 

I narrowed my eyes. If he was going to turn this into some sort of “You’re too young and immature to understand anything in life” speech… “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It would be inapropriado for me to feel that way.” 

“T.” 

“What?” 

“It’s innappropriato in Italian. There’s a T, not a D.” 

“Oh. Thank you, Lovino.” 

I shook my head. This was ridiculous. I was distracting myself. “It would be inappropriate anyway.” 

Antonio shook his head and laughed humorlessly. “Oh, Lovino.” 

“What?” I tried to sound like I didn’t care, but the disappointment in his voice was like a blow to the chest. 

“There’s a lot you--and the world--don’t understand yet.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demanded. 

“I think you know, Lovino.” 

I looked up at the green leaves of the fig tree. There was a little bird perched on its highest branch, staring at something in the distance and enjoying the August breeze rushing from the southern hills. 

“Oh,” I said, refusing to meet his eyes, which I could tell were on me. “You’re one weird bastard.” 

Antonio laughed, but it was full of suppressed pain and sorrow, and I instantly regretted calling him a weird bastard. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he cut me off. “It’s alright.” 

I nodded. “Can I have a cigarette?” 

Antonio laughed and shook his head, but finally gave in. “Fine, fine.” He handed me his own, which had been resting, forgotten, in between his fingers for a few minutes. I held it to my lips, breathed in a mouthful of smoke, and immediately began coughing. Antonio laughed, took the cigarette away, and slapped me on the back to prevent me from choking. When I caught my breath, he winked. 

“Don’t tell your papa.” I couldn’t resist a smile. 

“When do you leave?” 

The smile shrank from his face, but only for a moment before it was replaced by a new, if ingenuine one. “Tomorrow. I’ll go back to France.” 

Tomorrow. That was a lot less time than I thought. “Oh,” I said. “I think… I think Papa will miss you. Feliciano, too.” 

“And I’ll miss them.” 

I looked him straight in the face, struggling to maintain eye contact. “I… I think…” But meeting those hopeful eyes, I couldn’t finish my sentence. I trailed off and watched him watch me, until Papa’s voice rang out from the kitchen, calling us to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovino bisexual rights!


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning when I crawled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen to scrape some butter on a flimsy piece of bread for breakfast, there was an emptiness in the air. The fresh sunlight that filtered through the curtains seemed dimmer than it had been the sunrise before. The small breakfast I forced down was less filling than it had been last mealtime. Even my half-asleep haze felt rationed and strained. Antonio was gone, and I shouldn’t expect to see him again. He had slipped out earlier that morning, battered suitcase in hand and sympathetic sadness in his silent goodbye as he stepped out the door. 

Over the next four years, I thought about Antonio frequently. It seemed like I was always waiting for the day that I’d just stop thinking about him and move on, only to be reminded years later and reflect fondly on the kind man I’d known one summer years ago. But that never happened. I’d always find my thoughts wandering back to him. Antonio would like this song, Antonio used to say something like that, Antonio used to stand right here in the garden and smoke, Antonio, Antonio, Antonio. Even my family was responsible for returning him to the forefront of my mind. “Remember when Antonio did that?” or “Why aren’t the workers this year like Antonio?” or some other such nonsense. 

Meanwhile, though, there were more pressing events playing out on the world stage. 

The most catastrophic and deadly war in human history began on a Friday. I woke up early since it was the first week of school and, as usual, I had made a pledge to succeed in class. Not sleeping in was part of that plan. Such aspirations always failed me, and my school performance slipped by the second week, but when the war began, I was still stuck in the illusion I could do well.  
Papa was sitting on the couch by the radio, listening intently. Feliciano, already up and yawning, was leaning against him sleepily. The words of the reporter sounded jumbled in my half-asleep mind: “Germany invaded Poland at dawn this morning. I repeat, for those of you just tuning in for this piece of breaking news: Germany has invaded Poland. The operation commenced at…” 

All day at school, the only topic of conversation was the potential war. All of the young boys in class were beyond eager to join the army, receive a gun, and kill other young boys, if it came to that. Though I kept mostly quiet and to myself, I can’t deny that I was excited. Our village was always somewhat boring, unchanging. A war would certainly change things. It’s remarkable, isn’t it? The willingness of young men to sacrifice their futures, their eagerness to become a number and statistic, all at the orders of fat old men sitting safely and securely in their mansions.   
The nuns didn’t even try to get their students to stop whispering and to pay attention. Instead, they talked quietly amongst themselves, about whether Italy would join the war, about how long this war might last. 

When we returned home from school, Papa was still glued to the radio, along with some of the farmhands and workers. They were going channel to channel, from the state media to the illegal Italian-language BBC to the equally-illegal English-language BBC. 

For days, as everyone wondered whether Italy, as Germany’s ally, would declare war on Britain and France and jump into the fight, there was rampant and intense debate. Most believed the war would be over within a year, a few months even, and that Germany would deal a swift and easy victory. Papa, however, cited the Great War in arguing the conflict would last much longer. “In 1914, when we watched great nations fight from a distance, we were all convinced it would be over quickly,” he argued. “Four years later, millions of people across Europe were dead. Who is to say this won’t be the same?”   
But Italy didn’t join the war. Not at first at least. I would be lying if I said that didn’t disappoint me. I was disappointed that we’d go straight back to the unchanging fields and tiny village with no adventure, no excitement. Meanwhile, Feliciano wanted nothing to do with any talk of war. As usual, he detested any military anything.   
Italy finally joined the war in 1940, right when it seemed France would fall and Britain might, too, all but securing victory and dominance for Germany and fascism. When France was finally invaded, my thoughts again strayed to Antonio. As an avowed anti-fascist, had he risked his life to fight against the invading Nazis? As a resident of France, had he joined the army to defend his new country? Was he alive? It was difficult to hear of the destruction and death ravaging France knowing that Antonio was somewhere in that chaos. I wondered frequently whether the innocence and hope in his wide eyes would survive such atrocities. I hoped they could, especially since they already survived the horrors of Guernica. 

Following Italy’s declaration of war, Papa began to grow more avidly anti-fascist. He began to lament at home about the oppressiveness of fascism and the horrors committed by Italy and her allies. He listened more frequently to illegal radio stations, from both inside Italy and from countries like Britain. He swore that Feliciano and I would never have to fight for such evil ideologies. 

Around 1941, a young man from Perugia, Ezio, began staying with us as a worker. He became my first real friend. After hearing Papa listen to a banned communist station on the radio (Papa was not a communist, but he still educated himself on other ideologies), Ezio proudly announced he was a communist himself. He provided Papa, Feliciano, and I with some leftist pamphlets and books, ironically some of the same ones Antonio had left because of. Ezio passionately described to me socialist and communist and anarchist theory until my ears were ringing. At first, I didn’t quite know what to think. These were ideas I’d never been presented with. All I knew about socialism and communism was that they were vaguely bad. Ezio’s little lessons on leftist theory provided the framework for my later political beliefs, including my stances today as a Marxist-Leninist. 

More importantly for the sake of the story, though, Ezio, Papa, and a variety of banned radio stations changed my position on fascism. Walking to the Avanguardista with Feliciano one Saturday afternoon, I realized rather suddenly that I was brainwashed and indoctrinated. For the next few years, I spend much of my time trying to undo all the damage il duce’s fascist education had done to me. 

By 1941, fortune had turned against Italy. The Allies began to land little victories, and Italy began to fail and retreat. As anti-fascists, we were all very pleased about this, especially Papa, who would cheer whenever we would hear of a few kilometers advance by the Allies. As a former major of the Italian military and a patriot, Papa was also always disappointed. Very contradictory, but war always is, so I guess that’s to be expected. 

1941 was also the year we began to feel the impact of the war. We began to starve, our rations shrinking until we could barely survive off them. We were fortunate enough to have a garden, since we could grow some extra food, although sometimes they would be stolen, entire plants ripped out of the dirt. Some of the workers tried sneaking crops off of the farm, but we didn’t own the land other than the house, the barn, and the dusty lot in between. The wealthy Roman landowners we worked for were apparently also “suffering” and punished workers who had the audacity to steal trace amounts of food by firing them and leaving them with nothing. That served no purpose but to radicalize me even more. 

I turned eighteen in 1942. Just two days later, I stood in a cold, sterilized room, stripped of my clothes and covering my junk, alongside two other squirming young men. We were studied and examined and ordered to do push-ups on the tiled floor. I have no idea what the doctor with a clipboard wrote about my naked body and half-assed push-ups, but I got out of military service. Farming was a necessary service to Italy and provided the people with food. Just as crucial as the military. Although I do have a hunch that Papa cashed in a favor with a contact in the department in town responsible for military recruitment. Those bastards were always corrupt as hell, but I can’t complain because it saved my ass. A year later, Feliciano got out of military service the same way. 

The Allies invaded Italy in July 1943. It seemed that fascism would soon be a distant nightmare. I couldn’t even imagine what life would be like in a monarchy or democracy or whatever else came next (Ezio firmly claimed that a communist system would be established in the smoldering ruins of the fascist government). Mussolini had been in power since before I was born and became an all-powerful dictator when I was just a baby. It was intriguing to think of what might come next. I imagined life would become similar to the fantasy existence I had in my head of the United States. Although that beautiful, golden idea of the US was dispelled when I lived there briefly in the late ‘40s, the Americans would nevertheless arrive in our village. But that’s a few chapters from now. 

I can mark the date I became a partisan as September 10, 1943, the day Germany invaded following Italy’s surrender to the Allies. The northern part of the country was the German, fascist stronghold, the southern consisted of the Allies and soldiers-turned-partisans, most of whom were loyal to the monarchy. Being in the central part of the country, we were caught right in the middle. Our region, along with Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany, was the most radical region and most populated with communists, anarchists, and socialists hoping to knock out fascism and capitalism in one swift blow. 

Although he was desperate to keep us all out of danger, Feliciano did his part for the cause as a sort of amateur spy. He would meet up with informants at the Cantina Camilla, which was popular with fascists and Germans and therefore the least suspicious for a partisan. He would exchange names and information for a bag of coins and money and would slip out inconspicuously after a coffee. Then he would refuse to have anything to do with whatever became of that information. Feliciano was just anxious to keep us all safe. 

I wanted to go on the dangerous, violent missions that Papa sometimes went on, but he wouldn’t allow it. He was overprotective during those years, afraid he would lose his children after losing the only woman he had ever truly loved years earlier. But I was an adult. I was nineteen years old. I could just as easily be risking my life in the military. I even considered joining the guerrillas in the hills, but in the end I decided to stick with the partisan movement at home, limited to mere correspondence with the guerillas, caring for wounded or tortured partisans with bullet wounds or broken bones, and singing roaring renditions of ‘Bella Ciao’ when victories were won. 

Throughout those tumultuous years, though, Antonio always lingered on my mind. Was he in Spain? Was he in France? Was he a refugee? Was he in the army? Was he even alive? The answers to these questions would come on a cold January day in 1944.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, and two days later, England and France declared war on Germany, officially beginning World War II.   
> Il duce = Mussolini's nickname amongst the Italian people from the 20s to the 40s. It means 'leader.'  
> "Mussolini had been in power since before I was born and became an all-powerful dictator when I was just a baby" = Mussolini came to power during the March on Rome in 1922 and granted himself total control of the government in 1925.   
> Here is a version of 'Bella Ciao' from the excellent Spanish show La Casa de Papel: https://youtu.be/spCdFMnQ1Fk It's on Netflix and I really recommend it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for descriptions of a dead body.

January 1944

I gasped for air as I stumbled down the doorstep and clung to the white picket fence. An icy winter breeze danced through the evening sky, tossing dead and dying leaves to the harsh unforgiving ground. I wrapped my worn jacket around my body and struggled to breathe as I watched the distant hills, imposing and protective as ever. Papa used to tell us that those mountains marked a boundary around the farm, a boundary that would protect my brother and I from mythical dangers and fictional monsters. But those were just rocks and dirt mounds covered in grass, bushes, and the scattered clump of trees. And that promise of safety was just told to us by Papa to calm us when we woke in the night as children, crying over some creature lingering in the shadows. Nothing could protect us now. Not after what I just heard on the radio. 

What had caused me to run, stumbling outside with an excuse of needing fresh air, was a monotonous, scratchy voice over the radio informing listeners of an execution. That on its own would never really bother me for long. I had unfortunately grown used to hearing of deaths, even of civilians. A few weeks before, while in town by myself, I had stumbled upon a corpse hung in the village square, neck broken, protected from the sun under the shadow of the church. His face, with its sunken eyes and bleeding nose and rotting lips, had haunted my dreams for nights afterwards. But executions were common. That I could handle. 

What I couldn’t handle was news that an entire village about two hours north had been woken up in the early hours of the morning, before even the shopkeepers were up to prepare their goods, had been marched to the outskirts of town, and had been shot. Men first, then women, and finally, once all opposition had been removed, once anyone who could fight was lying in a pool of their own blood, the children were killed. Executions, yes, I could handle. But men, women, and children indiscriminately killed? That I couldn’t. 

Since our work as partisans had begun a few months before, I had longed for more responsibility in the Resistance, something Papa continuously denied me. But especially now, the fact that something deadly could happen to my family lingered over my shoulder, always watching and always ready to vanish when I turned around to look. 

As I leaned against the fence, I did not see the warm countryside scene that my eyes did. Instead, my mind was assaulted with images of rotting corpses and bullets tearing through flesh. I gasped and realized tears were beginning to fall down my face. Years before, when the war began, I had been excited. I had longed for adventure. I had hoped to experience something exciting or do something brave. As the war went on, I would experience exciting things and do brave things, it’s true, but I did not enjoy any of it. By January of 1944 I knew that war is not something to long for. Not when those corpses lying outside of a quiet, now-deserted town could be the broken, lifeless bodies your father’s and brother’s souls had once inhabited. Well, now I knew what my nightmares would consist of for the next few weeks. 

“Hey, are you alright?”

I startled and backed away from the fence and into the wall behind me. I had gotten used to expecting German patrols wandering the countryside, looking for anything suspicious. I looked up and when I did, I jumped again. Instantly I knew I wasn’t in any danger, at least not physically, but the owner of the voice startled me nonetheless. 

I’m sure you’ve guessed that it was Antonio. He was older, that was for sure. I hadn’t seen him in four years. In those four years, his hair had grown a little longer. He needed a haircut. It seemed wilder, curlier. His clothes were somehow shabbier, if that were possible. He was bigger, a little stronger. He carried a beaten suitcase in one hand and some sort of case in the other. Maybe for a musical instrument…? 

“...Yeah,” I said. “I’m alright.” 

Antonio beamed. “Wow, look at you!” he exclaimed. I had missed that friendly accent. “And you’re voice! It’s so deep!”

I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak. There was a few minutes of silence. I could feel him scanning my face, my body, just as I did the same to him. I could see the time that had passed in his eyes. That innocence and kindness was still bright and thriving, but there was something coexisting in them, something darker, like he had done and seen things rivaled only in his life by his horrific experience in Guernica all those years ago. And over the bridge of his nose was a small scar; very faint, only visible if I squinted a bit. But there. 

For a few minutes, there was no need for words. I didn’t even feel awkward, as I typically did during exchanges with people outside my family. Antonio just gazed at me and I did the same to him. The relaxed happiness in his face infuriated me, just as it made me feel welcomed and calm. 

The stillness was broken by the jarring sound of the front door being thrown open and a loud voice rambling on somewhere behind me. 

“Lovino, are you okay, you sure ran out of there all of a sudden and all, did you-” Feliciano trailed off as he noticed the person I was with. “Antonio?” I followed Antonio’s joyful gaze to see my brother, hanging off the front step. Over the past years, Feliciano had shot up in height, until he was far taller than me, which I envied. At least I had a deeper voice to brag about. His light brown, nearly blond hair had darkened a shade or two since 1939. “Oh, wow, Antonio!” Feli exclaimed. “Hey, Papa, come look at this, it’s Antonio!” 

Papa was at the front door within a second, his expression changing from shadowed and dark--the news report on the executions--to light-hearted and welcoming. “Antonio!” he cried, pulling the poor man towards him and kissing both of his cheeks in greeting. I watched the excitement away from the group, bewildered and ignored. I merely stood taking in his appearance, or more realistically, his reappearance. 

“Come in, come in!” Papa beckoned, and all three filtered inside. Papa lingered on the doorstep, waiting for me to join them, but I didn’t. He left me alone when I turned away, my arms folded and a sense of subdued shock preventing any movement. 

As I said before, I had long established my feelings towards men and women. I had almost come to accept it, even though I was a devout Catholic and every mention of homosexuality was accompanied by talk of fire and brimstone. I figured, “Fuck God, he made me this way, didn’t He?” But there was a difference between vague threats of suffering in Hell long after my body has rotten and become a snack for worms, and the very real, very obvious threats from people in my culture and community. I could be arrested. I could be lynched. I could be shipped off to a concentration camp by the Nazis. What scared me more than my feelings was… well, giving into my feelings. I tried to convince myself that because I also love women, I would be able to find a nice, normal wife for myself. But seeing Antonio had brought up all kinds of unwanted thoughts and feelings. Surely, I could suppress those emotions. I should have known better. One cannot control love. 

~

Dinner went by in a haze of wine and amorous despair. I poured myself glass after glass of tempting red wine that had been saved throughout rationing until Papa wrestled the bottle out of my hands. While Antonio, Papa, and Feliciano all rambled on over sawdust-filled bread, starved portions of pasta, and pitifully thin tomatoes, I picked at my food and feigned disinterest in anything they were saying. That wasn’t true, of course. I was most certainly interested. I clung onto every word that came out of Antonio’s mouth as he spoke about the past few years. Mostly, he spoke about lighthearted, non-war related things, like funny cars he had seen on the streets of Paris, interesting stories from his friends Ned and Emma, and his sister’s wedding and her Brazilian husband and how funny Portuguese sounds to a native Spanish speaker. 

Naturally, though, the conversation soon turned to darker subjects. The war. Death. Rationing and hunger. After returning to his family in France, Antonio was essentially a refugee, along with thousands of other Spaniards in France fleeing the reign of Franco back in their home country. They lived in relative poverty with half a dozen other refugees in a small, rat-filled apartment in Paris. Antonio found work at a bookstore, which he clearly enjoyed. His eyes glowed with a pleasant light as he reminisced about the piles of dusty books towering in the crowded shop, about the pretty boys and girls from the local university who would wander in looking for heavy hardcovers, about the cat named Minou, who lounged on the windowsill in a pool of golden light. “What does Minou mean?” Feli inquired. “It means kitty,” Antonio responded, as if everyone named their cats ‘Cat’ and their dogs ‘Dog.’ 

Then, of course, the Nazis invaded. Antonio, filled with pride at his new country and hate towards the fascist occupiers, joined the resistance when he found documents stuffed in obscure books at the bookstore and demanded his boss take him to a meeting. Antonio’s cheerful, casual tone was jarring as he discussed his work as a spy. “They decided I should be a spy because I’m sweet and not very suspicious,” he said with a smile. “Oh, and kind of dumb. That’s what Marie, the lady in charge of our group, said at least.” While everyone else laughed, I was bewildered and struck with a strange sense of admiration. How could he just so easily admit to and joke about his flaws while so humbly detailing his experience as a spy? I was almost jealous of his apparent kind heartedness and easy going nature. Those were two things I always struggled with. 

While Antonio spent hours telling us story after story of his experiences spying on top Nazis from his job as an assistant to a German in a headquarters on the Seine, one particularly stuck out to me. It was the event that led him to flee France and head to Italy.

“One night, back in December, there was a birthday party for some top official, some real evil guy I hadn’t really met before,” Antonio said, refilling his glass of wine. “By that point, my boss, Herr Holz, was already suspicious of me. This Holz, he lived and breathed for work. Before the war, he worked in a bank, and he missed sitting at a desk all day. He was holed up in his office while everyone else was dancing or talking or drinking. 

“I was minding my own business, listening to the music, when his secretary, who was also from Spain, came up to me and told me the two of us had to leave. She said we were in danger.”

“What kind of danger?” Feliciano asked, transfixed on this fascinating tale. 

“I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t sure if I should trust this woman; it could have been a trap. I had no choice, though. I followed her out of the building. She explained to me as we walked through Paris that she had heard of plans to round up Spanish refugees. She showed me documents she had stolen from Herr Holz. They talked about Spanish refugees being communists leaving Franco behind in Spain. They talked about rounding up Spaniards in refugee camps. As the only other Spaniard in the building, she came to me. I promised her I’d make good with these documents and went to call a friend of mine in the Resistance to tell him about them.

“So I was at a payphone on a street corner when I heard gunshots. The secretary was on the ground across the street and the Nazi patrol who shot her turned his attention to me. So I ran. My main priority was the documents, then myself. If I didn’t get these papers to my comrades in the Resistance, many of my own countrymen would lose their lives. I don’t know how far or how long I ran, but I somehow lost him. I don’t think I was able to breathe for ten minutes afterwards; that’s how long I ran.

“I went to a safehouse and a few days later provided the Resistance with the documents. I hope it did some good. I hope I saved some lives. I wouldn’t know though. My face was plastered everywhere when the patrol did a face sketch and my superiors at the Nazi headquarters recognized me. I decided to go to Italy.” 

“And what is happening to Spanish people now?” 

Antonio’s face darkened. “I am sure many are being rounded up right now as we speak. I just hope the Resistance could save some lives because of those documents.”

“Antonio,” Papa said, evidently impressed. “I underestimated you. That’s some impressive work.”

“Thanks.” Antonio grinned.

“Why here?” Papa continued. “Why not elsewhere in Italy?”

Antonio swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Because of you.” My face burned. I could have sworn Antonio’s eyes drifted towards me as he spoke. No, no. I must have imagined it. “I figured that if anyone had connections to the resistance, it would be you, Roma. Obviously, I was right.” Papa’s face glowed with pride. I rolled my eyes.“I even have a new fake identity: Alejandro Huerta,” Antonio continued. “I’d like to stay around for a bit. Maybe I can be of some help to the cause.” 

“We’d all love that, kid,” Papa said in his boisterous voice. I leaned across the table, grabbed Feli’s unfinished drink, took a long sip, and promptly choked when I tried to force it down. I gasped for air and fought to breathe, coughing and cursing in a choked voice. Papa slapped me on the back heavily until I finally caught my breath. With unwanted tears streaming out of my eyes, I took a look around and realized everyone was staring at me.

“What the hell are you all looking at?!” 

“Lovino!” Papa protested, but I ignored him, stood up, and stormed away, my face on fire. Jesus, did I have to do that right in front of Antonio? I hadn’t had the confidence to look at him, to see his expression, but I was sure it was judging, harsh, pitiful. I stumbled down the dark hallway, forced my door open, and slammed it behind me. The echo reverberated through the walls. I found my way to my bed and collapsed onto the thin sheets. 

It was too dark to see. Feli’s room received all the light on the other side of the hallway, but it didn’t matter now anyway. Outside, the sun was long gone. Our dinner and conversations had lasted long into the night. Despite the darkness of my bedroom, I realized I could see one thing, and that one thing was Antonio’s face. His smile, his eyes, his gentle kindness. I groaned, rolled over, and buried my head in my pillow.

I must have dozed off in the peaceful darkness because I woke to the sound of a rhythmic knock at my door. 

“What.” No answer. I sighed and sat up to open the door. It must’ve been Feliciano, I figured, being annoying and not actually answering. I jolted in surprise when I opened it. Antonio, smiling amiably. My eyes widened, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. 

“Did I disturb you?” His voice was gentle and soft, as if he were trying not to wake someone. Feliciano must have gone to bed.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping.” I backed away from the door and invited him in cautiously. “What do you want?” 

Antonio smiled. “God, look how much you’ve grown up,” he exclaimed. “You’re a man now!”

I folded my arms and raised an eyebrow. “And?” 

“And I have something for you.” Antonio held something heavy out and I realized it was that instrument case he had been carrying earlier. I hadn’t found the time to ask him about it, not that I would ever ask Antonio anything, but I couldn’t remember him playing an instrument the last time we met. “Something for all the birthdays I missed.” 

I cautiously took it from him, laid it on my bed, and opened it as if a rabid animal would jump out and attack me. I gasped audibly. It was… a guitar? I glanced at Antonio, my mouth hanging open, and he nodded at me reassuringly, prodding me to take a look. It was a beautiful instrument, albeit a little worn and beat-up. I could tell it was in need of tuning. The neck was scratched, the strings worn. I loved it. 

And how had Antonio known I always wanted a guitar? My eyebrows raised as I remembered all those years ago, when Feliciano mentioned I wished for a guitar at the fountain. I cringed recalling how I fervently denied ever throwing coins into that fountain. And I remembered an 18 year-old Antonio quietly listening, taking note. How had he remembered a side comment from four years ago?

“I can’t play,” I said finally.

“You’ll learn then.” 

I nodded quietly and swallowed. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” More silence. I could barely make out Antonio’s face in the filtered light from the kitchen down the hallway, but I could see his self-satisfied smile, proud at having given me such an excellent gift. 

“Good night, Lovino,” Antonio said with a smile as he slipped out the door. When he closed it gently behind him, I was left in darkness once again.

As I ran my fingers up and down the worn strings of my new guitar, a dark mass grew in my stomach, fighting and tormenting the dizzying warmth living somewhere near my heart. I knew then that it would be near-impossible to stick to my plan. It would be harder yet to suppress my feelings. After all, they had survived and thrived for years without a glimpse or a word of Antonio. Who knew how long they would live yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrifically enough, multiple small villages throughout Europe were slaughtered by the Nazis. This occurred most often in Eastern Europe, where civilians accused of being Jews and communists were executed en masse. It also occurred on several occasions in Italy, usually in retaliation for action by anti-fascist groups. 
> 
> Thousands of Spanish refugees fleeing Franco’s fascist rule were rounded up and transported to concentration camps. Mauthausen, a concentration camp in Austria, became known as the Spanish camp because of how many Spaniards were prisoners there.


	7. Chapter 7

Antonio quickly gained favor and trust among the partisans in town. As usual, everyone fell for him instantly, asking him out for drinks or requesting advice for sticky situations with the police or Krauts. At one point, I gained the confidence to approach him and ask him if he could get me some more responsibility in the movement. Although he was all too happy to do me such a favor, Antonio had no luck on that front. He apologetically explained to me that my father was ‘protective’ and ‘understood the dangers’ of such risky work. He seemed so pitiful in that moment that I just thanked him for the guitar again and lied. “I’m fine with where I am now anyway.” But although I loved struggling through chords and riffs on my new guitar, it didn’t make up for the fact that I felt discarded and ignored. Yes, I was young, but I had passion and a desire to help. And yet Papa wasn’t taking me seriously. 

In early January, a few weeks after Antonio returned, I sat alone and bored on a table in the Cantina Verde with a half-empty bottle of coca cola lying discarded next to me. Feliciano was lounging in his usual seat by the radio, reading a book. Papa, Alfredo, Carmela, and this time, Antonio were in the back room, holding a discussion I was once again barred from hearing. I was nineteen years old. I understood it was dangerous to be a partisan, to be an anti-fascist. I knew it was difficult to sneak through town carrying vital information or to survive on the run while being hunted by Nazis. But I was old enough to believe in the cause and to make my own decisions. 

I glanced from Feliciano to the closed door. He wouldn’t notice if I eavesdropped, would he? My curiosity got the better of me and I figured he was too engrossed in his book to care. I slipped off the table and crept to the back door. I arrived in time to catch what sounded like the end of a conversation. 

“Get in and get out, Antonio,” Papa was saying. “You have all of the information and weaponry you need?”

“I have everything, Roma, don’t worry.” I’d never heard Antonio sound so determined.

“Good,” Carmela said. “You’ll only have a few minutes. Your car’s down the street. The one marked in red.” 

I did not stop to think. If I did, I would start to reason and analyze the situation. I would realize that what I was doing was incredibly stupid. But I didn’t think. I ran out the door, jogged to the end of the street, and stopped when I saw a vehicle parked alone with a small, almost imperceptible red cloth hanging from the windshield. It was more a truck than a car, with the platform at the back smothered by a dark canvas covering. My heart pounding, my brain still refusing to work, I rushed over and threw the heavy covering back. Then I climbed into the back of the truck and covered myself again.   
Darkness engulfed me and a strong, unpleasant metallic smell overpowered my senses. I fought to control my harsh breathing. I felt like I was suffocating under the heaviness of the covering and the enormity of what I was doing. I tried to remind myself why I had climbed into the back of a truck headed to God-knows-where. I was going to see what was going on. I was going to do something important. I was going to get involved, damnit, even if Papa didn’t want me to.

A deep guttural roar tore through the back of the truck, the vehicle shaking as the engine blasted to life. Fear rose in my throat. I thought about throwing back the covering and jumping out, but it was too late. The truck took off and I could do nothing but sit in the dark, willing my frantic heart to slow down, trying to prevent myself from thinking again. Thankfully, the drive was not far, though I was sure it felt longer than it actually was. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or terrified when the truck finally stopped and the engine fell quiet. And when I heard Antonio’s voice right beside me, I didn’t know if I wanted to jump out of the truck and cling to him desperately or run the hell away. I decided my best bet was just to stay where I was until this whole ordeal was over. No one would ever know…

“Is everyone else out of the building?” Antonio asked. I found his voice oddly reassuring, although it angered me I felt that way. 

“All out,” replied a woman’s unfamiliar voice. “Only the two targets. You got twenty minutes, Antonio, and this car will be blown sky high.”

Shit. So much for staying where I was…

“I’ll be done by then,” said Antonio.

“Good,” replied the stranger. “I won’t be anywhere around, so you have to hurry, got it?”

“Yeah.” 

I waited as long as I dared, heart pounding, sweat rising. When I was sure the stranger was gone and when I was sure I had to get out or I would suffocate under the weight of covering, I knocked frantically against the wall beside me. Only a second later the cover flew away, I blinked in the sudden sunlight, and Antonio swore loudly in Spanish.

“Please don’t blow me up,” I whispered.

“What the… ay, Dios mio… damnit, Lovino. You have to get out of this car.” Antonio grabbed me by the arm and helped me climb out. I staggered in the dirt and gasped for fresh air after the suffocating darkness of the car. “What are you doing here?”

I scowled and prepared a vicious verbal attack. “I just wanted to see what you were doing, bastard; no one ever tells me shit and Papa won’t let me do anything, and…”

“Listen to me.” I fell silent at the warning tone in Antonio’s suddenly deep, serious voice. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but you have to do exactly what I say now, understand?”

I mustered just enough irritation through my alarm to retort angrily. “What the hell do you…” 

“Lovino, I am deadly serious.” I fell silent again instantly. Antonio had never spoken like this before. He was like a different person. He was Andres, or Alejandro, or whatever the fuck his alternate identity was. “Keep quiet,” Antonio continued. “Do not say a word. Stay by my side. And promise me, that you will do everything I say, no matter what.”

“I…”

“Promise me.” Antonio’s eyes were hard, his voice commanding. I gulped down another protest.

“I promise.”

A bang echoed throughout the empty countryside as a door swung open. The truck had been parked next to a large, run-down building with fading white paint. Some sort of abandoned factory. “Huerta,” the man who had stepped outside yelled. “Are you joining us or what?” A blackshirt. I recognized the uniform instantly. He looked at me strangely and disappeared back into the building without waiting for a response from Antonio. It was only then that I realized what a stupid, stupid thing I had done.

Antonio grabbed my hand, squeezed it, and flashed me that trademark loopy grin, albeit a rather stressed one. “You’ll be fine, Lovino. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I can just… I can just wait outside, right?”

Antonio looked sorry. “That’s too suspicious. Just keep your promise and you’ll be fine.”

“Oh my God.” I crossed myself, an old nervous habit, and Antonio squeezed my hand again.

The interior of the abandoned building was filled with dusty tables, broken chairs, and old-fashioned machines decorated with spider-webs. Filtered light shone in through a set of large windows along the top of the plain grey walls. The blackshirt who had called out from the door leaned over one of the few upright tables, which was covered in papers, and another, an ugly bald one, sat back in a chair, eyeing the two of us warily. I clung to Antonio’s hand, beyond worrying what the blackshirts or myself thought, until Antonio released me and stared coolly.

“Go sit at the bar, boy.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t recognize him anymore. His eyes were narrow and emotionless, his lips in a tight line, his voice menacing and deep. I shook away my surprise, remembered my promise, and headed to one of the few upright tables standing close to the door, praying this would all be over quickly.

“Alejandro Huerta. Well, haven’t seen you in a while.” The standing blackshirt nodded at Antonio, who smiled joylessly back. I got the feeling this was the one in charge, at least out of the two of them.

“You know how things are, my friend. I don’t have much time these days—so I need to make this quick. Surprising to find you down this way, though.”

The officer rolled his eyes. “It’s a fucking insult, being posted here to the asshole of Italy. Arresting pathetic communists and their mothers.”

Antonio laughed, but it wasn’t the carefree, joyful laugh that I knew. It was cold and cruel. “That’s why I’m here, as I’m sure you know. My superiors need that list. We need to destroy this ‘resistance’ before things go too far.”

The sitting blackshirt, the ugly, bald one, scoffed and folded his arms before him. “And why should we give important information to you? You’re not even Italian. Hear that accent?” he mocked in a crude impression of Antonio.

Antonio didn’t even flinch. “We are all on the same side here, Uggeri. You work for il duce, and so do I. And Silvestri knows,” Antonio nodded towards the officer, “my superiors are always rewarding those who help them. I’m not getting that list for nothing, anyway.” Antonio drew a thick envelope from his pocket and slammed it on the table. Uggeri and Silvestri exchanged a greedy glance. 

I found myself transfixed at the exchange. This was not the Antonio I knew, the one with the easy laugh and wide, sparkling eyes and overwhelming generosity and constant kindness. I recalled him describing his appointment as a spy—he was “really sweet and a little dumb,” those were the words he used, with a sad, but truthful and amused look on his face, as if he were aware of his shortcomings and fine with them. But he sure didn’t seem really sweet and a little dumb now. I hadn’t known Antonio for long. What if this was his true character: intimidating, menacing, and evil?

My worried, fearful, fascinated thoughts were cut off when I noticed Silvestri glaring at me with a strange look. “Who’s this boy, Huerta?”

I looked at my feet, my pulse hammering in my head. Antonio said he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. I had no choice but to trust him.

Antonio’s façade almost faltered. “He’s no one.”

“No one?” Silvestri laughed. “So ‘no one’ is listening to us talk about top secret matters?”

Antonio gazed from him to me. I stared back at him frantically, sending him silent signals to get me the fuck out of here and away from these bastards. Antonio’s eyes betrayed no emotion. “Just something I picked up in the village,” he said smoothly. “Can we make this quick? I’m not paying this kid any more than I have to.”

The two blackshirts laughed knowingly, their stares growing increasingly unpleasant. My shoulders stiffened. I should not have come here… I shrunk into myself, wishing I could run out the door and not stop until I was in the safety of home.

“Well, now we know why you’re in such a hurry!” Silvestri said, his eyes flashing dangerously at me. He was a skinny, greasy man. I could almost see him licking his lips as he stared at me.

“Exactly. Let’s get this over with then. That list?” Antonio reached for the papers in Silvestri’s hand, but he pulled them back and looked pointedly at me.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That was a good amount of money you gave us, but… That’s not really enough for this kind of information, is it?”

Antonio’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly and his gaze wandered to the pistols lying before the two blackshirts on the table. I was sure Antonio was armed. I was also sure he would be crazy to go after two armed men with pistols when he was outnumbered. The momentary slip lasted only a second, and he looked up and smiled.

“Sure. Meet me at the inn in town and we’ll… continue this exchange. I’m on my way there afterwards anyway.”

“Why go that far?” Uggeri rose. “Here is as good a place as any. There’s an office back there with a sturdy desk.” Oh, God. I bit my lips and tried to control my breathing. All I could do was trust Antonio, even though I wanted more than anything to run.

“Okay,” Antonio said finally. “Just don’t take too long.”

Antonio was just playing a part, wasn’t he? He couldn’t possibly allow this, right?

“He’s pretty enough,” Uggeri said, as if I wasn’t even there. “They all look the same from behind, anyway.”

“He’s young, too, that always helps,” added Silvestri menacingly. Antonio laughed alongside them and slipped an arm over the officer’s shoulder. When he released himself, he had the list in his hand.

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement. And please, you go first.” I tried to formulate an escape plan in my mind. Should I run? They had guns. I would be abandoning Antonio. But was he even on my side here? “But first,” Antonio continued, “It’s cold in here, isn’t it? Hey, kid!” I stared at him pleadingly, but his face was blank. “Run outside and grab my jacket from the car.”

I didn’t think twice. I jumped off the table and ran. I threw open the heavy grey doors and stumbled on the steps, gasping for breath and trying to stop panicked tears from running down my face. I almost sobbed with relief when Antonio stepped outside, grabbed me by the hand, and practically dragged me down the street.

“What the fuck just happened?” I asked, my hands shaking with a nauseating combination of fear and relief. “What did you do?”

“Just keep walking.”

“But what did…”

“Nothing, Lovino.”

“What…”

I forced my hand out of Antonio’s grip and clamped down on my ears as a massive explosion blasted from behind, the deafening noise tearing through the otherwise peaceful countryside. I looked over my shoulder to see the truck in smoldering pieces and the building burning, its front wall torn away and crumbling in the dirt. My legs went weak, I stumbled, but Antonio immediately pulled me up and pulled me down the road.

“Oh, my God,” I managed, and I crossed myself with my free hand.

A beat-up green car waited around the corner. Antonio, who still had not reacted to the explosion just a few minutes ago, opened the passenger door, motioned for me to get in, and closed it behind me before climbing into the driver’s seat and instantly speeding off. I fiddled with my hands nervously, trying to comprehend what I had just seen and heard and what had almost happened to me. My ears were still ringing and I scraped some weird dust off of the back of my jacket. I felt like that explosion had been in my brain instead of the car. I couldn’t seem to process anything. The war had raged around us for years, yes, but never had anything so violent been so close to home. Our village had fortunately been spared most of the bloodshed and destruction for the past few years. 

“You’re okay, Lovino. Just breathe. You’re safe now, you’re with me, everything’s going to be fine.” The longer Antonio spoke, the more frantic he sounded, and the thicker his accent became.

“Shit,” I responded weakly. “Those men… were still in there.”

“Yes.”

“I know you said you’ve killed people,” I whispered, “but I never really imagined you could kill people, you know?” I fidgeted with my fingers, my breathing heavy and painful.

“I know.” Antonio took a deep breath. “I could never kill an innocent person, Lovino. Those men were not innocent. Through their deaths, we… we saved a lot of lives today.”

“Shit,” I repeated. “They wanted to rape me.” I tried to prevent my voice from cracking.

Antonio’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel even harder. “I know,” he said, his voice softer and more sympathetic. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.”

Antonio parked the car in the same spot the truck had been parked earlier. I didn’t return to the cantina, although I was sure Papa and Feliciano must be wondering where I was. Instead, I followed Antonio down a few alleyways until we reached the local inn, where he stayed when in town.

“I have to put these papers away,” he said quickly. “Then I’ll take you home, okay?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t seem to understand half of what he was saying. The world spun rapidly around me as I followed Antonio through the inn, up the narrow stairs, and into his shabby room on the third floor. The whole way Antonio talked, half to himself and half to me, rambling and incoherent, his accent growing thicker and incomprehensible. “I just need to put these papers in the safe… It will only take a second… I’ll walk you home in a bit… I need to put them in the safe… It’s okay now, Lovino… Let me put these away, then we’ll leave…”

As soon as Antonio shut the door behind me and set the papers away, he pulled me forcefully towards him. “Don’t you ever… EVER… do anything like that again, understand?” 

I couldn’t tell if he was angry or upset or had lost his mind completely. “I…”

“My God, Lovino, that was… just don’t…” Antonio pulled me into him, holding me. I could feel his chest rising and falling steadily. I could hear his breath faintly in the silent room. “Please don’t ever do   
that again.”

Tentatively, I mimicked the hug. It was warm and welcome and kind. It felt like home. It felt wonderful.

But it was Antonio. Or Alejandro. Or Andres. Whoever it was gently holding me, he was a wanted criminal. The fascists were after him, the Nazis were after him. And of course, he was a man. I couldn’t allow this—whatever ‘this’ was—to continue. Not the hug, not the smiles, not the entire relationship. I forced my way out of his grip and looked at him seriously. The wide, gentle look in his eyes was   
mostly back.

I opened my mouth to excuse myself, to run away and never have to see him again, but before I could, Antonio spoke, his eyes soft and cautious and hopeful. “I’m sorry, Lovino,” he said. “I just… I just can’t see you in any danger.”

“Why?” I muttered. 

“Well…” He seemed to be debating himself internally for a second. Finally he came to some sort of conclusion. “I… I think I should just tell you. I have feelings for you, Lovino. You have a right to know that.”

I backed a few steps away until I cowered against the closed door. Oh, God, what was he saying? And why now, damnit? “Feelings?” I whispered.

“Yes. Romantic. Those kinds of feelings.” 

My gaze fell to the scratched wooden floor. “You mean…like the way a man should feel about a woman?”

“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “Something like that.” I nodded silently and gripped the doorknob with one hand as if prepared to run. I was painfully aware of Antonio’s gaze. “You don’t have to do anything, 

Lovino,” he said hurriedly. “I just… thought you should know.”

I thought of the Antonio I had always known, the cheerful, eternally happy Antonio with wide eyes and curly hair and lopsided, easy smile. The Antonio who liked Renoir and the Hobbit and obviously tried so hard to look serious and official when he stood in the garden smoking. But then the other Antonio, the new, scary Antonio, came to mind. The Antonio that spied on top German officials and put himself in precarious situations, the Antonio who had manipulated those two blackshirts whose bodies were nothing more than smoldering piles of ash by now, the Antonio who was wanted throughout Europe. And I made a decision. 

I loosened my grip on the doorknob and took a confident step forward. The hopeful look in Antonio’s wide eyes pained me. “That’s… impossible, Antonio,” I said. “And you know that.” The hope was gone, replaced by sad acceptance. “You’re wanted. I could get in trouble for being in the same room as you. Plus, you’re a man. Neither of us can feel this way. Papa would hate me, I’m sure your family would hate you… And even if we were to forget all that… even if we…” I shut my eyes and collected myself before continuing. “There’s no way. I can’t feel that way.” 

Antonio swallowed and nodded. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Okay, Lovino. I understand.” I looked down at my feet. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No, I can go myself.”

“Alright. Goodbye, Lovino.”

But I was already out the door and couldn’t bother to return the gesture. Every step I took on the whole miserable walk home was filled with pain, every ounce of my being screamed for me to turn around, to run back to the inn and to embrace Antonio, to kiss him and hold him and force him down onto the bed and tell him I’d stay, I’d stay, I’d risk anything to be with him. But I was a coward. I didn’t have the courage to do any of that. All my body allowed me to do was walk home in a stupor, my heart burning in the abyss of a world without Antonio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spy Antonio gives off Diego Luna in Rogue One vibes.


	8. Chapter 8

The next days passed in a stupor. I avoided Antonio at every opportunity, scared that if I heard him laugh or saw him smile or watched him run his hands through his hair, I wouldn’t be able to handle my feelings. It almost made me angrier that Antonio was so understanding and respectful about my avoidance of him. He was civil and polite when we were forced to interact, while I stubbornly refused to speak to him, afraid of what any sort of relationship, platonic or not, would inevitably lead to. 

I also lessened my already limited involvement in the Resistance. Of course I knew the dangers we faced as partisans; I had seen executions, heard about slayings of men, women, and children, witnessed the gruesome injuries the Gestapo inflicted on the poor souls interrogated for information. But up until then, I had never come face to face with such violence. I would catch myself imagining what could have happened if Antonio had not saved me—which inevitably made me love him, and hate him, more. 

Papa, who had been trying to keep me away from danger since the Germans invaded, was all too happy that I was doing his job for him, even if he was confused about my sudden change in behavior. I hadn’t told him about the incident, afraid of the potential punishment that could come from such recklessness. Thankfully, Antonio hadn’t mentioned it either, which naturally led to more grudging   
admiration towards him and more self-hate directed to myself. 

I still participated in the ‘safer’ Resistance business—if anything anti-fascist could possibly be safe at the time. One afternoon, after a meeting between a handful of local partisans and supporters in the back room of the Cantina Verde, I sat dejectedly on a table and watched Papa speak to Alfredo and a local partisan in hushed tones. Feliciano lingered somewhere near them. I smirked at the sight—Feliciano was easily taller than all three of them, but his apparent disinterest in the conversation made him seem so much younger. Someone approached me and leaned against the table beside me. My smile shrunk instantly and I straightened my shitty posture, knowing instantly who it was.

“Hello, Lovino,” Antonio said.

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“How are you?” he asked, and lowered his voice. “Since, you know, what happened.”

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I’m not a baby.”

Antonio nodded quickly. “I know. It’s just, that’s a difficult thing for anyone to go through. I mean, I’m still shaken.” 

I I scoffed. That was doubtful, especially when Antonio had certainly already taken the lives of dozens of other fascists with ease. “Yeah, okay.”

Antonio leaned over closer. “I’m serious, Lovino.” He paused and stared at Papa for a second. “Do you want to go meet a contact with me?”

My heartbeat sped up. Yes, yes, of course. Anything with you. “Why would I want to do that?” 

“Your papa told me you want to go on more missions and stuff…” Of course. Antonio didn’t actually want me with him. He just wanted me to feel better about myself. Typical. “…Plus, I could always use any sort of help,” he added quickly, as if reading my mind. “If anything happens.” 

“Anything like rape attempts?” I demanded before I could think about what I was saying. 

“No, no, this isn’t anything like that,” he said. “It’s just a meeting with a contact of mine.” He leaned close to me, closer than necessary, and whispered, “And I would never let anything happen to you. I   
promise.”

My breath caught in my throat and I developed a sudden interest in my shoes. “Okay,” I said, hoping my excitement was shielded by a layer of false reluctance. “Fine.”

Antonio’s contact sat in a large, imposing chair behind a strong, oak desk in the center of a windowless, dimly-lit room sparsely decorated aside from two portraits of Hitler and Mussolini on the back wall. I lingered at the back of the room by the door as Antonio sat down in one of the hard wooden chairs in front of the desk. 

The man seated behind the imposing desk somehow managed to appear more intimidating than the desk of the threatening room. If I was just a little more afraid of this man, I would have determined he was probably double the size of both Antonio and I combined. A thick layer of fat concealed muscles able to snap an arm in half with ease, his eyes were dark and beady in his skull, and a thick dark beard concealed much of his face. The only reassuring thing about the whole situation was his surprising admiration and fondness of Antonio the second he stepped through the door. It was clear this man trusted Antonio. Antonio had told me as we approached the office in a local building inhabited by Blackshirts and Nazis that this man was a trusted and valued fascist—at this point he winked light-heartedly. My combination of anxiety towards all new acquaintances and my unfamiliarity and prejudice towards people of other nationalities and races—which unfortunately still afflicted me at the time—led me to remain cowering my the door despite Antonio’s obvious friendship with this man. 

“Alejandro!” the contact exclaimed in a booming voice as Antonio stepped inside with a bright smile. It didn’t seem this was a man who deserved the threatening, evil identity Antonio had taken on for those sick rapist Blackshirts in the abandoned factory.

“Sadik,” Antonio greeted with a nod. “How are you?”

Sadik didn’t answer. He turned his gaze towards me, and I tried to subtly shrink into the wall. “Who is this?” he asked, as if trying to place where he might have seen me before. 

“Roma Vargas’ son,” Antonio said. Of course. I had just been dragged alone to gain favor with an important contact. 

Such a plot, if it existed, was successful. Something flashed behind Sadik’s eyes, and his demeanor changed from casual curiosity to genuine interest. “Nice to meet you.” As Antonio nodded encouragingly at me, I took a few cautious steps forward. Sadik laughed shortly as I came closer. “Damn, I can tell you’re Vargas’ kid! Look at that face; they’re identical.” I was uncomfortably aware of Sadik’s stare. 

“Well, maybe a little less muscular and all.” I glared, but that didn’t seem to bother the contact. He gestured towards an open chair beside Antonio and I sat reluctantly. 

Antonio opened his mouth to speak, but Sadik cut him off with a single wave of his hand, which in my irrational fear of this man, appeared to be the size of my head. “Money first, Alejandro.” Antonio reached into his pocket and drew out a small pouch, which he slammed onto the desk with a flourish. It landed with a distinct rattle. Sadik laughed lowly. “See, this is why I like working with you, kid,” he said. “You understand the stupidity of paper notes.” 

“You know I will continue using gold.”

“Relax, kid,” he said easily. “I wouldn’t turn you in, not if you keep up these regular donations.” He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a thick envelope, which he waved in the air. Antonio sat up straighter. “But first,” Sadik said. He could obviously tell how important the documents in his hand were, and he seemed to enjoy how much he didn’t care. “Business.” 

He tossed the envelope onto the desk. Antonio snatched it immediately and carefully tore it open, fishing out a few neatly folded papers.

“Transcripts of orders from top American Air Force personnel, maps, whatever else you need,” Sadik explained. I leaned over curiously to examine the documents. Maps and diagrams and letters in poorly translated Italian seemed to dictate plans and orders regarding some sort of military offense. I knew Papa and some other local partisans had begun working closely with the US military, especially the Air Force, but of course, I’d never known why. Whatever attack these documents detailed, this must be it. 

Sadik picked up on my curiosity and laughed boisterously. Why was he so loud? Surely Hitler himself could hear him so casually discuss important, secret matters. “What, little Vargas,” he chuckled, “Your daddy hasn’t told you what’s going on?” 

“We are helping the US Air Force plan a landing directly on the mainland,” Antonio explained hurriedly, continuing to scan each meticulously folded paper. “At Anzio. It will be a final push against the Nazis.” I nodded, but through my fascination, I could only think of Papa and his refusal to tell his own son, his own 19 year-old son, who could easily just be in the military fighting, important information   
that almost certainly would affect him.

Sadik cracked his knuckles absent-mindedly. “What we need now is a way to take down top German pilots in one move.” 

“Destroy the Luftwaffe base,” I said quickly. “Their planes.” Sadik smirked and Antonio looked up. My face burned red and I brushed my hair out of my face. “I mean, if it’s the Air Force you’re working with, that’ll be their main opposition…”

Sadik laughed. “Well, you’re getting right to it,” he said. “You sure take after your daddy, the Major.” I glared. Antonio, however, nodded seriously, like he was really considering my idea. I was sure he was just trying to make me feel better about my lack of significance in this whole fight. 

Sadik’s laughter faded into oblivion and he immediately appeared to grow bored of the silence, interrupted only by the sound of high-heels clacking from the hallway and a clock on the wall that ticked incessantly. “Well, Alejandro, you gonna take all day reading those?” he demanded. “We’re done here.” 

Antonio thanked him and gathered the papers. I immediately rose from my chair and hurried toward the door, not wanting to spend a minute more in this suffocating room. I was all too aware of Sadik muttering something about my apparent resemblance to Papa. 

Before Antonio could open the door to leave, Sadik called out, “Have fun blowing up the Luftwaffe, little Vargas!” And to Antonio, he said warningly, “And next time, send someone a little more innocent-looking to come in and out of this building. I’m not trying to get myself thrown into a concentration camp, Alejandro.” I eagerly followed Antonio into the narrow hallway. 

The fresh air out in the mostly empty street felt wonderful in my lungs, a sharp contrast from the stifling warmth in Sadik’s office. “I don’t think I like him,” I announced.   
Antonio laughed. “Little Vargas,” he crooned in a poor imitation of his contact. I laughed in spite of myself. Antonio giggled. “He’s a good man, if a little overbearing. But let’s not talk about that out here.” I nodded, but Antonio did not start walking back in the direction of the Cantina Verde. I looked at him expectantly. Antonio laughed, and I was surprised to hear a touch of uncharacteristic awkwardness in his voice. “Um, would you like to go out for coffee?” he asked hopefully. 

I’m sure by now you can guess what my response was. It was physically painful to form the words in my mouth, but my brain tried to remind me it was necessary to turn down every advance by this man. “No,” I said uncertainly. “I should go home.” 

Antonio nodded sadly. It annoyed me that he didn’t contest my decision. I’m sure I would have given in if he pressed me just a little bit more. “Okay, Lovino,” he said, and I instantly turned away to leave. “Goodbye.”

I didn’t return the gesture. A voice deep inside me spat a single word, dripping with detest and hatred: Coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turkey time


	9. Chapter 9

My involvement in the Resistance didn’t substantially increase after that, although after that close call in the abandoned factory and my unwarranted uneasiness around Antonio’s contact, Sadik, that didn’t bother me as much as it could have. I continued to attend meetings in the back room of the Cantina Verde or in farmhouses throughout the endless countryside, tend to the wounds of injured partisans with as much care as I could muster while feeling rather insulted at my job, and go into the mountains once a month with Papa to exchange information with a group of anarchist guerillas who set up camp there. I didn’t mind the latter; it was kind of exciting to feel the energy of change and passion among the men and women who risked their lives in those mountains. 

I tried to avoid Antonio as much as possible, although I found it difficult, even as I began to notice Papa’s concerned glances every time he noticed the two of us together. Even in a packed room, we always seemed to be drawn to each other. He would initiate the conversation, whether about my guitar or my untied shoelaces or the eyelash on my face—eventually it felt like he was searching out my flaws so that he could point them out and exchange a few words. The casual, slightly awkward words would warm into a conversation, until soon there was laughter and even inside jokes—stuff reserved for real friends. This isn’t so hard, I would think, congratulating myself for exterminating that attraction I wanted gone so bad. 

But air when he laughed, or crinkle his eyes whenever I playfully teased him for being stupid or not understanding a reference to some book. And just like that, the feeling was back again, alive and well, like when you hope your least favorite coworker will be sick and not show up for work, but you arrive that morning and there he is, tormenting you and teasing you with his very existence.

This blossoming friendship would have to end, and fast. 

Unfortunately, Antonio was not going to make it easy.

One Sunday, after a morning church service, he volunteered to venture into the mountains with Papa and I to meet with the guerillas we were in correspondence with, as we did once a month. I had hoped to impress Antonio with my professionalism and bravery—Sure, contradictory given that I was trying to forget about him—but this… This was just insulting. I know, I know, as Papa always told me, all work done by the Resistance was crucial in the fight against fascism, but this? All that I heard of interest was a jumbled regurgitation of information I already knew, and that was only after we had spent hours trudging down side roads and back ways up the mountains in heat uncommon for winter. 

By the time we left, spirits were low. Well, spirits were low for me. I felt my old desire for more responsibility returning unwillingly, hand-in-hand with that humiliating feeling of being sheltered from real action by Papa. Meanwhile, Papa seemed rather pleased with the results of our monthly visit, and Antonio was, well, Antonio. 

The hike down the mountains and along dusty countryside paths took hours, until the light was fast disappearing from the purple sky tinted with gold. But Antonio ambled along, hands in pockets, curly brown hair flying in the wind and his tuneless whistle dancing on the breeze. Antonio had been worn thin lately, stressed at maintaining two alternate identities at once: one his own and one as Alejandro Huerta. It didn’t help that I could sense a strange shift in Papa’s feelings towards him. It was as if he was suspicious, as if he were suddenly convinced Antonio spying against us and not the Nazis. But that was impossible. Antonio had long proved his loyalty to the cause. Nevertheless, whenever he caught the two of us laughing, joking, or talking quietly with each other, he stared seriously, obviously deep in thought. 

But during this long walk home, I felt miserable. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and kicked rocks lying in the road. The pistol Papa had gifted to me that now rested, well hidden, in my pocket, was useless. Surely, I would never get a chance to use it. I felt desperate to prove myself, to help my country, to fight against fascism, and more than anything, even though I would never admit it, to impress Antonio.

I turned to observing the unchanging countryside around me. A few towering cypress trees and the occasional twisting oak tree lined the road. A few trenches, long dug into the countryside, snaked nearby. Behind us, the mountains rose ominously in the darkness. To my right, a steep, grassy hill towered over the surrounding fields and occasional farmhouse, shack, or barn. To my left and ahead of me were various slopes, far in the distance. I had never been past those hills, though I longed to. And though the day had been unseasonably warm for December, the wind was beginning to pick up and the heat of the sun was fast disappearing.

As my feet began to hurt in my worn shoes, I slowed to demand a break, but before I could ask for anything, a loud bang echoed throughout the countryside. Papa and Antonio instantly had their guns out, tense and ready for anyone or anything. Hurriedly, without thinking, I attempted to do the same, only to catch my foot on the uneven path and stumble. Sharp, burning pain tore through my ankle, and I stifled a cry as I fell to the ground. 

“LOVINO!” roared Papa. But it was Antonio who reached me first, hands running over my chest, my stomach, my arms, frantically, as if searching for something. It hit me that he was looking for an imaginary bullet, trying to find the source of expected blood.

"Lovino, are you hit?” he asked desperately. “Lovino, answer me!”

I tried to force Antonio’s roving hands off of me, my skin burning through my jacket where he had touched me.

“Stop it,” I began, “It’s just my fucking…” I broke off and gasped, pain searing up my leg in an agonizing wave as I tried to stand. “…ANKLE, OH SHIT!”

Papa and Antonio both breathed out audible sighs of relief.

“Gracias a Dios.”

I tried to glare, but when I had to blink back tears forced out by the pain, I gave up. “What do you mean ‘thank God?’ It hurts! Don’t touch it…” I felt Papa’s hand cover my mouth to stifle the yelp that followed.

“Lovino, you’re all right,” he said. “Let Antonio check your ankle.”

“That must’ve been a tree snapping,” Antonio mentioned as he focused on my leg. Papa nodded in agreement and sat up to scan the surrounding area. 

“Why are you so fucking casual about this?” I demanded. 

“Watch your damn mouth,” Papa said. 

I nodded, albeit with an angry scowl, and Papa backed away. At the same time, Antonio pulled off my shoe, and I had to slam my own hand over my mouth this time to keep from shouting in pain. I fought the reflex to kick Antonio with my uninjured foot as he ran his hands gently over the tender flesh.

“It’s just a sprain,” he said, relieved. He smiled brightly at me. “Nothing’s broken, don’t worry.”

“You shouldn’t put any weight on it,” Papa said. “We’ll have to go slow.”

“You can go ahead, Roma,” Antonio said, too quickly. “I can help Lovino home.”

My eyebrows shot up. Surely Papa wouldn’t trust Antonio to bring me home. He looked from Antonio to me and then out across the valley, thinking. Finally, he nodded reluctantly. “You know how panicked Feli can get. I should hurry.” As he headed into the distance, Papa called back, “Be as fast as you can, and be careful. There are German patrols on this road sometimes.” Antonio gave him a small wave.

I almost forgot about my sprained ankle. Papa had left us alone. I was alone. With Antonio. For the first time since that hug in his room in town, I would be alone with him. I didn’t know what to do, how to handle my emotions. Antonio smiled at me, bright and carefree, his face glowing in the moonlight. I glared back.

“I don’t need your help. I can walk on my own.”

Antonio looked doubtful. “If you put any pressure on that ankle it’s gonna swell up like an overripe tomato.”

“Well then, I’ll hop.”

Antonio’s face twisted in amusement. “All the way home?” he teased.

“Yes,” I answered defiantly.

“I can carry you.” Antonio wagged his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

My eyes widened in alarm and I shook my head frantically. “Oh, no. No, you can’t.” I forced myself to my feet, took a determined step forward, and immediately stumbled and fell to my knees as a wave of pain tore through my leg. Antonio caught me before I hit the ground.

“Oh, Lovi, you are so stubborn. Let me help you.” This was nothing like the Antonio I had witnessed blow up a car and kill two men a few weeks before. He held out his hand with a flourish. I took it and he helped me hobble to a fallen moss-covered tree branch that lay just off the road.

“I don’t need your help,” I mumbled weakly, refusing to acknowledge how Antonio’s firm grip around my waist made me feel.

“Well, you do need someone to help you bandage this ankle. Sit down and try to relax, okay?”

As Antonio dug through the bag he carried, stuffing my shoe inside and taking out a roll of bandage, I shifted on the branch, feeling an uncomfortable poking into my thigh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pointless gun, leaving it abandoned on the branch beside me.

Antonio just stared at it, starkly black against the bright green moss resting on the log. “Didn’t your papa tell you? Never take your weapon from your side unless you’re gonna use it.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know,” I said exasperatedly. “But it’s only for a second, I’ll put it right back!”

“Don’t forget,” Antonio warned.

“I’m not stupid,” I grumbled. I resigned myself to the painful, embarrassing feeling of Antonio gently wrapping my swelling ankle in a long white bandage. I searched for something to say, something to break the silence, instead of staring at Antonio’s strong, tanned hands. “Today wasn’t really a dangerous mission.”

Antonio’s eyes found their way up to mine. They were bright and wide, in stark contrast with the rapidly darkening evening and his messy curls. “Every mission is dangerous.”

I couldn’t handle gazing into those eyes, so I turned my attention to the dark shapes in the distance that I knew were mountains. I tried to find exactly where the guerilla encampment was located, but I knew none of them were stupid enough to leave a fire burning or any sort of light on after nightfall. “You sound like Papa.”

Antonio smiled and returned his focus to my ankle. “But it’s true.”

“He won’t let me go on any real missions,” I blurted out. “That’s why I snuck into the truck with you when… that one time.”

“I’m surprised you still want to be so involved after that.”

“Well, I know what to expect now,” I said, cracking my knuckles absent-mindedly. “I’m ready. But Papa just keeps trying to ‘protect’ me.”

Antonio shrugged. “That’s just what you do when you love someone.”

I flinched as Antonio pinned the bandage in place and accidentally poked my ankle. Immediately, I inhaled sharply and tried to hide my pain. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” I glanced at him curiously, but Antonio was not looking at me. Having finished pinning the bandage, he gently patted my leg to indicate he was done, but he didn’t move to stand.

“Would you choose me for one of your missions?” I asked, praying I didn’t sound too hopeful.

“Your papa would kill me if I went behind his back.” Antonio leaned forward conspiratorially, a playful gleam in his eyes. “But I could always use loyal help. Maybe I’ll bring it up with him. And of course,  
you’d always be safe with me.”

My mouth almost dropped. I could see myself working alongside Antonio, gathering information, avoiding arrest, doing important and brave things. “You’re serious?” Antonio nodded and I couldn’t help a small laugh laced with disbelief and elation. “And why would I be safe with you?”

Antonio shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “Because I would protect you. With my life.”

I reflexively tried to kick him with my uninjured foot. Antonio laughed and fell backwards on his hands. “You say the most dramatic things!”

“I need a promise from you first.”

I folded my arms and tilted my chin up. “A promise?”

“That if we are ever in danger, you will do whatever I say.”

I thought carefully, watching Antonio’s suddenly serious face the whole time. I had made that promise once before and it had likely saved my life. “Fine.”

Antonio tilted his head and raised a hand to his ear. “What was that?”

“Fine, I promise!”

Antonio laughed and stumbled to his feet. He was clearly having way too much fun. “Was that so hard?”

My lips pulled into a traitorous smile and I looked away into the darkness to disguise it as a cough. “No, whatever, it wasn’t hard.”

Antonio threw his bag over his shoulder, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

My heart fluttered annoyingly. “Shut up, you’re so…”

Antonio raised a hand abruptly, and I fell silent. He took a few cautious steps into the road, checking both ways, as if looking for someone or something. His eyes were hard and cold and his lips were tightened into a tense line. I tried to stand at the sudden change in demeanor, Papa’s words echoing in my ears: “There are German patrols on this road sometimes.” Before I could join Antonio’s side, longing for and cringing at the safety and comfort I would feel beside him, he pointed frantically at the tree trunk, and I sank back down obediently. I didn’t have time to ask what was wrong before Antonio hurried over, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me from the log into the row of trees lining the road.

I suddenly didn’t feel any pain in my ankle. I didn’t have time to as Antonio forced me into one of the narrow, deep trenches well hidden among a tangle of roots and branches. Whatever we were hiding from, they likely wouldn’t find us here.

“What are we going to…”

“Ssh…” Antonio whispered firmly, suppressed worry barely concealed in his eyes, his body curled up in the dirt beside me. “Be quiet and don’t move. They will drive right by.”

I nodded and crossed myself, praying the patrols would not notice us. I could hear the faint sound of a car engine driving from the direction we had been heading. I tilted my head back towards the stars shrouded by leaves and branches, half-formed prayers lingering on my lips. The sound of an engine drew closer, closer, closer… They would pass right by and this would all be over. Antonio was right beside me and he would not let anyone hurt me. We were hidden well by the underbrush and tangled roots. But the engine didn’t fade out into the distance as I anticipated. Right as it grew loudest, it stopped. The driver had turned off the car. I glanced towards Antonio with horrified confusion, and with the look in his eyes, I could tell we both realized at the same time. My gun. I had left it sitting conspicuously on the log.

How could I have done something so stupid? Antonio had told me not to leave my weapon out like that. I knew not to leave my weapon out! “I’m sorry,” I whispered frantically, but before I could make out another apology, Antonio pressed a finger to my lips with a brief shake of his head. I clamped my mouth down with my hand as I heard car doors slamming and unmistakable German voices barking over each other, probably debating the origins of the gun and why it was now lying on a log.

Antonio suddenly reached over to me and pulled me strongly by the waist until I was leaning into him, head buried into his chest. As German voices grew louder, as twigs snapped under German boots, I couldn’t help the tears that spilled silently from my eyes. I couldn’t even manage to feel ashamed that I was a grown man crying, although now I know that there are far worse things to do than cry.

As Antonio wordlessly comforted me, a hand running up and down my back, his steady heartbeat easing my nerves as I leaned into his chest, I realized that I did not deserve this. I did not deserve this comfort and kindness. I did not deserve Antonio. Because of my careless mistake, the only thing that stood between him and torture and death was a few feet of dirt and bushes. If he were arrested tonight, it would be my fault.

I shifted to look up at him, to see the anger and loathing that undoubtedly was contained in those beautiful eyes. But there was no contempt, no hatred. There was just controlled fear and reassuring calm.  
Before Antonio’s apparent lack of fright and resentment could take hold in me, a deep voice shouted somewhere above. Antonio went rigid. His hand moved slowly to his hip, and I realized he was reaching for his gun. My heart froze, my mouth went dry. Then Antonio breathed something so faintly I wasn’t even sure if I had heard it or imagined it. “With my life.”

I knew then that he was telling the truth. He meant it. Antonio really would sacrifice himself for me, die for me, kill for me. I shut my eyes tight and mouthed prayers. I didn’t want him to have to do any of that for me. No, I didn’t want that. Because I loved him. Well, I love him. I could admit that then, and I can say that happily now. I love him.

But back in 1943, we weren’t out of the clear yet, not even when the sound of the engine resumed and it grew more and more distant until I couldn’t hear anything anymore but the sound of the wind and the night. I gasped out a sob, relieved and horrified and shaken. Antonio returned the pistol to his side and sat up to peek over the edge of the trench.

“No, no, no,” I whispered frantically. “What if it’s a trap?”

Antonio smiled back reassuringly and took a look around the road and surrounding area. “They’re gone.”

I shuddered with overwhelming relief and gasped out a heaving sigh. “Oh, God, Antonio,” I managed weakly. Antonio climbed out of the trench and outstretched a hand to help me. I limped back to the log as soon as I was out, Antonio by my side to make sure I didn’t fall on my face. As I sat back down, I thought about our near-death experience. A snarky part of my brain was all too happy to remind me that it would have been my fault if Antonio were arrested.

“Lovino? Are you okay?”

“No!” I covered my face with my hands, feeling a fresh wave of tears rise up in my eyes. “No, I’m such an idiot! I made a stupid mistake! Why did I do that, I know not to leave my gun out!”

Antonio sat beside me on the log. “No, Lovino, it’s…”

“Stop!” I said, stumbling away from him. “I am an idiot! Whenever I’m in a situation like this…” My voice wobbled dangerously. “…Whenever I’m in a situation like this, I fall apart! No wonder Papa doesn’t let me go on serious missions! I’m so afraid of everything! I’m afraid of something happening to you, or Papa, or Feli; I’m scared of being tortured and killed; I’m scared what they would do to you…” I trailed off, stifling a sob.

“It’s okay, Lovino,” Antonio said soothingly. A few moments passed of silence broken only by the wind and my gentle sobs. “Oh, mi corazon. Everything’s okay now.”

“Don’t call me that,” I managed, and Antonio smiled. “And it’s not okay.”

Antonio paused as he considered his words. “Lovino, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t get scared. You would be a psychopath.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I said. “You don’t get scared of anything. You’re the bravest man I know, except for maybe Papa.” I paused. “Also, that’s not what a psychopath is.”

“You think I don’t get scared?” Antonio laughed humorlessly. “Lovino, that was fucking terrifying.” That caught my attention; I had never heard Antonio curse before. “Of course I was scared. I am afraid of all of those things. I’m scared of something happening to you and your family… And I am scared of what the Gestapo would do to me…” Antonio broke off in a shiver. “…If they caught me.”

I flinched and shook my head. “Don’t.” I had seen a glimpse of what the Gestapo did to minor, unimportant prisoners. I didn’t want to imagine what they would do to someone as wanted as Antonio. Of course, I didn’t have a choice in the end.

Antonio took a second to continue. “I’m afraid of the same things as you, Lovino. The same things.” He reached out cautiously, as if waiting for me to slap him away or curse him out. I didn’t move, so he brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “Some things are worth being afraid of. You can’t suppress that or anything. And it’s not a weakness.” I took a deep breath and wiped tears from underneath my eyes. Finally, Antonio stood up and outstretched his hand. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

I nodded. I allowed Antonio to help me to my feet, to place an arm around my waist, to help me walk. But I still couldn’t meet those eyes.

Suddenly, Antonio smiled playfully and I could feel my lingering fear begin to dissipate. Oh, great. Now he was back to regular old Antonio. “So what is a psychopath if it’s not someone who doesn’t feel fear?” I raised an eyebrow and scoffed. 

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “That’s the most important thing right now? We almost just died!”

Antonio babbled on aimlessly for the rest of the long walk back home. He touched the usual topics: places he had been, people he had met, stories he had heard. He laughed and joked and even sang occasionally: Spanish tunes I couldn’t recognize or translate. For the first time, with his relaxed manner and his arm around my waist, I felt like I belonged. I knew then that it wasn’t going to be long until I gave in.

I could barely believe the position I found myself in. The sky had grown fully dark, the full moon illuminated a gentle countryside scene, the scent of freshly cut grass from the nearby lawn of a farmhouse was carried over the wind. And Antonio was beside me. My hip burned where his strong hand rested as he allowed me to lean into him. I limped heavily on my injured ankle, but all pain seemed to vanish, replaced by a nervous swell in my stomach. I fiddled with my fingers, unsure where to put my hands. I had never been so close to him. 

But there was no real need for awkwardness. Antonio’s body was too warm, too soft, his grip too gentle for that. And of course, Antonio’s tour of the stars overrode my self-consciousness. 

“And that one there…” he pointed up to the infinite sky, “...is called the wheelbarrow!”

“The wheelbarrow?” I repeated flatly, my voice laced with thinly-veiled mirth and pity at his ignorance. For the past quarter of an hour, Antonio had been naming constellations, such as the ‘Ursula Major’ or ‘Achilles Heel.’ I knew he had begun this little diversion to dry my frantic tears and take my mind off my almost fatal mistake earlier that evening, but soon his voice was filled to the brim with excitement, his eyes round and awestruck at the infinite sky above. 

“Yes!” Antonio exclaimed, blithely ignoring my tone. “See, there’s the handle; it’s formed from those… outer moons, and that asteroid belt looks like a bit of grass, see?”

“No.” I didn’t even bother looking. My focus was on Antonio’s face, glowing with simple happiness in the pale moonlight. “There’s no constellation called ‘the Wheelbarrow.’ You’re making this all up. And there’s no ‘outer moons’ there.” 

“I’m not making anything up! This is true! I studied astronomy in university.” 

I couldn’t prevent a laugh from escaping my lips. “You didn’t go to university!” I exclaimed. “And if you’re going to make up constellations, at least make them believable. I mean, the ‘Big Tomato?’”

“Hey?” Antonio said, his grip on my waist tightening threateningly. I didn’t even bother forcing him away. “The Big Tomato is a very ancient and very important constellation!” 

“To who?” 

“To… uh… the druids.” Antonio’s face glowed with pride, probably from having come up with a backstory for his constellation with such speed and ease. 

“The druids?” I was very glad of the dusty, obscure history books I had found in the basement once. “Tomatoes originated in Mexico and weren’t grown in Europe until the 16th century. It sure is remarkable that the druids were so imaginative.” 

Antonio pressed on, the impressed look at my vast collection of useless knowledge replaced by determination. “Yes. Yes, yes, the Big Tomato was very important to the Mexican druids. Forgot to mention they were Mexican.”

I bit my lips and turned my gaze to the empty, darkened fields to suppress an unwanted giggle. “You know so much about astronomy and history, don’t you?” 

“Thank you, Lovi!” Antonio said brightly, ignoring my sarcasm. He just pointed at a bright cluster of stars lying directly above our heads. “And if you would look to your… well, above, then you will find Orion’s Collar.” 

“Belt, actually.” 

It was all too obvious Antonio had no idea what he was talking about or even where he was pointing. “That is the Big Bear, over there by the hills…” 

“Ursa Major,” I sighed, the tiniest tug at the corner of my lips. 

“Um, no, I don’t think so. I already showed you Ursula Major, and it’s right over there. Two similar constellations. Easily confused.” Before I could retort back with some sarcastic comment on his astronomical knowledge, Antonio pressed on, his eyes growing even wider. “And oh, there’s my favorite!” His target now was the brightest object in the night sky, save for the moon. “Venus. I like Venus.” 

Well, at least he was partially correct this time. “Venere,” I corrected into Italian, “isn’t a constellation.” 

“No,” Antonio said proudly. “He is a star.” 

I forced my smile down. “No. She is a planet.” 

Antonio beamed. “Okay, okay, Lovi, I surrender. I’m not as smart as you.” 

I tried to remove myself from his grip. “I didn’t say that, idiot.” 

Antonio stopped walking, his smile faltering. He looked from me to the sky before gently taking my hand. It was rough and calloused from years of working odd jobs on farms, but that was comforting to me. He looked into my eyes as he spoke, his face serious. “Now, just one more thing about Venere that I happen to know…” I shivered at the sudden change in tone. Antonio’s voice had just gone three times deeper. “Did you know, she is named for the Roman Goddess of Love?” 

My breath caught in my throat. Of course I knew that. Antonio knew I knew that. Love. I finally shook my head. “No. No, I didn’t know that.” 

Antonio’s face was dubious. Before I could manage to jerk my hand out of his grip, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I bit my lip and my eyes widened. What was he doing? Another move like that and I promised myself I would have to force him away. But Antonio released my hand and returned his gaze to the stars. 

“One day, Lovino.” He placed a hand on my waist and drew me closer as we continued our slow, careful walk. “One day, we’ll go up there. Just ordinary people, like you and me. We’ll go to the moon, to Venere, even to the Big Tomato.” 

I scoffed. “Well, have fun burning to death in the stars.” 

“I’m serious, Lovino! Imagine it!” I stumbled, wincing as a wave of pain spread up my leg. Antonio smoothly steadied me and smiled breathlessly. “Imagine if humans went up there, to the stars, instead of trying to kill each other. Maybe there wouldn’t be any need for war or espionage or torture if we just saw how insignificant we are.” 

As we turned a corner, I focused my attention on Antonio, relying on him to prevent me from walking into the grass or tripping on a rock. Sure, maybe he was a little simple, as exhibited by his obvious lack of astronomical and historical knowledge, but he had some beautiful ideas. 

As I recognized the farmhouse in the distance, illuminated by the moonlight and by a single candle sitting on the windowsill inside, I stopped Antonio abruptly, not wanting to go home yet.  
Antonio tensed with alarm, clearly on the lookout for more German patrols. “What is it?” When his rigid shoulders finally slumped to their normal positions, I realized he understood my reluctance.  
“Lovino?” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

“What?” 

I could feel him digging around his pocket as I leaned into him. “I have something for you.” I turned curiously to see him whip something from his pocket and present it with a flourish. It was a simple silver… ring? I couldn’t muster a glare and instead glanced nervously to the window of the farmhouse a few dozen feet away. What if Papa was watching? “I have been meaning to give it to you. I got it when I was in Rome...what was that? Two weeks ago?” 

“It has a code in it!” Antonio said, back to his cheerful self, though I could sense a concerned eagerness in his voice, as if he was awaiting a Lovino-typical response. 

“This isn’t a code; it’s Spanish, idiot.” Antonio beamed. He had gotten his response, and I knew it when I said it. 

“No, no, no!” he insisted. “It’s a code!” 

I raised an eyebrow and slipped the ring in my pocket. “Oh, so you’re a code writer, now?” 

Antonio puffed out his chest proudly. “One of the best. The British wanted me, but I’ve never liked pigeons. And of course, my heart always lay with astronomy.”

I didn’t bother suppressing my laugh. Antonio joined in delightedly. “The British don’t use pigeons anymore, you know.” 

Antonio tilted his head with a smirk, as if he knew something I didn’t. “That’s what you think, Lovino.” He lowered his voice to a frantic whisper. “It’s part of a top-secret mission.” 

I shoved him away playfully and began to limp as fast as possible towards the door. “Don’t mock me!” 

Antonio giggled and hurried behind me, trying to grab my waist again. “No, no, Lovi, I would never!” 

Again, I shoved him away and hurried as fast as possible towards the farmhouse, attempting to avoid falling over or further injuring my ankle. 

“Wait!” Antonio cried. “Wait, Lovino, your ankle!” 

“I’m fine!” I laughed. 

“Don’t be silly, you are injured, lean into me!”

I widened my eyes, although a smile was still stuck to my face. “You pervert!” 

Antonio grabbed my shoulders. “No, no, that’s the pain speaking…” 

“I don’t need your help!” I promptly stumbled on the stairs leading to the door, and Antonio caught me. 

“Here, let me carry you inside!” It was clear Antonio was having way too much fun messing with me. 

“What?!” I shook with helpless laughter, my arms tangled with Antonio’s in a half-hearted, ineffectual attempt to push him away. Antonio’s eyes were as bright and eager as a child’s on Christmas. “Get off, bastard, you’re crazy! I don’t…”

The front door swung open before I had time to jump out of Antonio’s grasp. Antonio forced his smile to dissipate and placed his hands on the railing against the front steps in a useless attempt to act casual. Papa stood threateningly in the doorway, the disapproval strong in his eyes. 

“Evening, Roma!” Antonio managed as if nothing had happened. 

Papa didn’t take his eyes from Antonio. “Lovino, go inside.”

I opened my mouth to protest… It was useless. This was Papa’s house, I wasn’t going to get away with anything here. At least I had the ring in my pocket with its “secret message” to decipher. I limped into the house and turned when I was far enough away to avoid another order from Papa. 

Antonio, still standing uncertainly in the doorway, cleared his throat and bounced on his heels. “Well, then. I guess I’ll be…”

Papa interrupted. “There has been an incident. An execution in the town square.” 

I inhaled sharply. “Who?” Antonio demanded. 

“The operation this morning did not go according to plan.” 

“Feliciano…” I gasped. 

“Feli is all right,” Papa reassured. “Just shaken. He’s already asleep.” 

“Did he see the execution?” Antonio asked. 

Papa straightened rigidly and folded his arms. “You will not question him, Antonio.” His voice was dangerously controlled.

“It’s my job to ask these questions, Roma,” Antonio said. 

“It is not your job to torment my son,” Papa growled. He took a step forward, blocking the doorway and my vision in one swift move. “You will not make him relive a traumatic event.”

I had to take a few silent steps to the right to see Antonio glare and mimic Papa’s threatening position. Despite the many times I questioned his ability to be an effective spy, especially while rambling on about the stars and presenting me with ‘secret codes,’ Antonio could certainly appear intimidating if he wanted to. That unfamiliar, harsh look from the abandoned factory was back. Finally, however, he gave in. 

Papa seemed satisfied. “We’ll speak tomorrow, Antonio.” 

Antonio left with only a brief glance in my direction. The ring in my pocket seemed like a bomb. 

The front door was shut with an echo that rattled the walls. I could practically still see Antonio lingering on the front step, disappointed and disheartened. My hand was drawn magnetically to the ring lying in my pocket, wondering with caution and excitement what Papa would think if he could have seen the two of us together on that walk.

Papa collapsed into a chair at the table. A stack of papers sat beside a half-empty glass of wine. I knew that Papa drank on two occasions: when he was happy and when he was nearing despair. Right now, he sure didn’t look joyful. “That was a long walk,” he noted.

“My ankle,” I blurted out, and Papa nodded, barely concealed doubt in his expression. “Would Antonio really be torturing Feli by asking him a few questions?” 

Papa downed the rest of his glass. “You know how Feli is,” he said. “He… gets upset easily.”

I scoffed. “Papa, Feli gets upset when a plant dies.”

Papa glared at the stack of papers and shook his head. “You shouldn’t just dismiss your brother like that,” he said. “At least he’s willing to show his feelings.” I raised an eyebrow. Papa lowered his head apologetically and covered his tired eyes with his hands. “I’m sorry, Lovino. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

I hardened my eyes. “You don’t have to apologize,” I spat. “I know you like Feli more than me.” It was a childish thing to say, yes, but nevertheless I felt proud of myself for taking out my anger in some way. I tried to march away towards my room, but promptly stumbled and grabbed onto the back of a chair for support. 

“Are you alright?” Papa asked softly.

His sudden kindness just angered me more. “I’m fine,” I growled. “Nice of you to ask.”

Papa met my gaze. There were dark circles under his eyes. Like Antonio and like much of the Resistance, the past months had been tiring, stressful, and dangerous, and had taken their toll. “Lovino, your brother watched two men die today,” he said. “Maybe you’ve gotten used to that kind of violence—I hope not—but your brother is… more sensitive.” I lowered my head. “Those dead men fought and died for Italy.”

I felt a pang of guilt. “Antonio also fights for Italy,” I blurted out.

“You don’t know Antonio.”

I narrowed my eyes. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”’

“He’s not…” Papa vaguely waved his hand around, searching for the right word. “…safe.”

“Safe?” I scoffed. “You thought he was safe enough to leave me behind with. You thought he was safe enough to protect me from a German patrol…”

Papa froze, eyes widening in alarm. “A patrol? Why didn’t Antonio tell me?”

“I’m telling you!” I shouted. 

Papa looked horrified. “Don’t you see?” he demanded. “This is exactly what I mean. If that patrol had found you…” 

“Well he didn’t!” I snapped. “He didn’t because Antonio protected me and we hid on the side of the road. He would die before letting anything happen to me!”

Silence.

“Or… or to any of us,” I stammered weakly.

Papa leaned forward and fixed me with a piercing stare. I forced myself to meet his gaze, no matter how difficult. “Do you love him?”

My breath caught in my throat. I felt like all the blood had been drained from my body, leaving me frozen and defenseless. I couldn’t speak for a second, I couldn’t manage to make out the words. “That’s ridiculous.” The words floated in the air before me, weak and distant. 

“No.” Suddenly, Papa looked calmer than I had seen him in months. “It’s not. I don’t understand it, Lovino, but Antonio is clearly infatuated with you.” Papa rose to his feet and began talking more frantically. “And completely discarding the fact that he is… a man… You don’t understand, Antonio is a wanted man, if they find out you’re important to him…” Papa sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you love him, Lovino?” 

He knows. My heart pounded as I tried to form the lie in my mouth. While the rational, clear-thinking part of my brain, the part that had told Antonio we couldn’t ever be together, the part that had suppressed every emotion I felt towards him, tried to form a lie, the other part, the part that had played along with Antonio’s little games, the part that had clung to him in terror while the German patrols lingered somewhere above us, screamed out with every ounce of its being Yes! Yes, I love him. I love him. 

“No. No. I don’t love him.” Papa looked dubious. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Alright,” Papa said, still obviously unconvinced. “We’ll talk in the morning. There’s some bread in the kitchen if you’d like any.”

“No, that’s nasty sawdust bread,” I mumbled. “And I’m not hungry.”

As I limped down the dark hall, stumbling in the dark to find the doorknob, I couldn’t help but find Antonio standing everywhere in the darkness. I couldn’t help but recall every second of our walk home, every second of his tour of the stars. I couldn’t help but reach into my pocket and fish out the ring. How bold. That was bravery, I thought to myself. Being willing to risk everything for love. And I had denied it all in one gutless lie. I was a coward. 

“Lovino, are you okay?” Feliciano lingered near his bedroom doorway, the soft light of a candle pooling around his figure. I couldn’t see his expression, but based on his posture and the way he wasn’t slumped over, he wasn’t very crushed from the execution earlier. I knew my brother and his habits. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I muttered. “Are you?”

Feliciano shrugged and paused for a moment before extending something out to me. It was small, rectangular, and crinkled when I took it. I glanced at him curiously. “Do you want some chocolate?” 

“Yes,” I said, raising my voice a little. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I held the bar up to my face. In the darkness, I could just barely make out bright white German words displaying a logo and Schokolade.  
Chocolate and other sweets had been in short supply since Italy had joined the war. Rations had reduced our meals to hard chunks of bread, small portions of pasta, and canned meat. My mouth watered at the thought of some sugar. 

Before I could thank him, Feliciano plowed on. “Where’s Antonio?”

My reverie was shattered instantly. I couldn’t help inhaling sharply. Surely Feli, ever so ignorant about things right in front of him, wouldn’t notice. “Not here,” I said.

Feli paused. “Do you like Antonio?”

“Like him?” I demanded. I backed up towards my door, wanting to run inside and curse myself for being such a coward and such a liar, alone in the privacy of my room. “Why would I like that bastard?”

“I don’t know,” Feli said quickly. “I just thought… Because Papa sure doesn’t like when you’re around him.” 

I smiled humorlessly. “Were you listening to that conversation?”

Feli looked to his feet and folded his hands behind his back guiltily. “…No…” Bullshit. My brother was always bad at lying. If he had been a troublemaker like me, he wouldn’t have ever gotten away with  
anything.

“Go to bed.” I turned around to leave, but Feliciano piped up again as my hand gripped the doorknob. 

“Maybe you should tell Antonio that…” Feli trailed off weakly. “…you don’t like him.”

I didn’t bother turning around to respond. “Go to bed. And thanks for the chocolate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> best chapter of the original methinks


	10. Chapter 10

For months, our diet had been one of near starvation. I gag as I think of the slimy chunks of meat contained in bent tin containers, or the bread filled with sawdust to add more volume. So when Antonio showed up at our doorstep one evening and presented us with a basket of tomatoes and a single bar of chocolate, we were ecstatic. Notably, Antonio’s chocolate was wrapped in a yellow paper containing the logo of an Italian company. Feliciano’s chocolate, which sat half-eaten on my nightstand as I rationed it out over several weeks, was inscribed with German writing. In hindsight, I should’ve paid more attention to that.

As Papa cautiously invited Antonio to sit in Mama’s chair, kept empty in her memory and ironically the place I had first seen him, I noticed Antonio’s eyes flicker to my hand—he was looking for the ring. Part of me wanted to dash into my room and dig through my drawers until I had retrieved it in between worn pairs of shirts, where I had stuck it the night before, but the other part of me was acutely aware of Papa’s distrust and suspicions. Instead, I glared at him, praying he would get the idea and keep it together.

Despite Antonio’s constant gaze—he hadn’t caught on to my silent idea—and Papa obvious suspicion, and of course, despite the unending war and suffering raging outside, dinner was surprisingly light-hearted. There seemed to be an unspoken rule against talking about the war as long as there was this gift of delicious food. Papa even had enough to drink to tell stories about Mama.

“Eleni was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on,” Papa said, his eyes glowing. I was listening intently to his story and I knew Feliciano was too. He rarely spoke about Mama; it was often too painful. ““The second I saw her, I knew I would never love another. Dark skin, thick black curls, the loveliest dark eyes. I walked straight up to her, took her hand, and asked her to marry me.” I didn’t have to look in his direction to know that Antonio’s eyes were yet again on me.

“Wow!” Feliciano exclaimed. “And she said yes?”

“No. No, she punched me,” Papa laughed. “But I swore I would never give up. It took me months. Can you believe it? I could have any woman in Italy in a second. But these stubborn Greeks. Her… it took months.”

I was glad Papa was too engrossed in his own story to notice Antonio’s pathetic little glances in my direction.

Even Antonio was looking back on good times, particularly from the little gold days in between the two brutal wars he had lived through. “Christmas, 1938,” he narrated. “My friend, Emma, invited me to her hometown of Amsterdam with her and her brother for the holidays. Her brother, Ned…” Antonio giggled. “He didn’t like me much. He told me I was annoying.”

“That’s because you are,” I muttered, and Antonio’s mouth rounded into an O in mock offense.

“Lovi, you are so mean!” he exclaimed through a smile. “…Anyways, back to the story. Ned was even less happy that Emma and I brought our friend Gilbert along. Ned hated Gilbert even more than he hated me. On Christmas Eve, Ned, Emma, and I went out, and Gilbert joined us later on, after a church service—Gilbert may not seem like it, but he’s really very religious. Ned and Gilbert got into some sort of argument—I think Gilbert insulted Ned’s hair, which, in Gilbert’s defense, does look very funny. Finally, it got physical. Gilbert was strong enough, but Ned is about this tall. All it took was one punch. And that’s the story of how I spent Christmas in a hospital room with my friends, all because Ned broke Gil’s nose over his hair.” Antonio’s smile widened even more. “As far as I know, if Gilbert’s alive, he still has a crooked nose from that very incident.”

“If he’s still alive?” Feliciano inquired.

Antonio’s smile faded and his face darkened. “He… joined the German army. A few months after the war broke out.”

“Your friend’s a Nazi?”

Antonio suddenly looked as if he had just eaten a fruit that wasn’t quite ripe yet. “No, no, he’s… he’s just in the army, not a member of that hateful party,” he said. “Not every German is a Nazi.”  
Silence fell at the table for a few minutes.

“So,” Papa said finally. “Does anyone want some of that chocolate?” 

With the conclusion of dinner came the end of our rare moment of happiness. Papa and Antonio immediately went back to their stressful, dangerous, but important work of helping organize the Allied landing in Anzio, planned for a few weeks away. Their voices hushed, as if the entire Nazi Party were piling around the house trying to overhear, it was clear their conversation was important. Even Feliciano was listening with an uncharacteristic interest. But instead of joining them as I normally would, I snuck off to my room, pulled almost magnetically to the ring buried deep in my drawer. 

As I stepped inside, my eyes turned to the guitar leaning comfortably against the wall. I silently cursed Antonio for giving me such a wonderful gift. Every day, I sat out in the garden, struggling to imitate songs I had heard over the radio. And every time I played, I inevitably thought of Antonio. Bastard.

I discarded several faded shirts as I dug through the drawer, until finally… There it was. The pale, simple, silver ring. I didn’t have to look to know exactly what it read on the inside: Te quiero. It was battered and clearly not very expensive, but I knew Antonio. He had poured every pathetic ounce of his sad, sorry love into finding such a ring. 

As I ran my fingers over the ingrained Spanish words, there was a knock at the door. I could tell who it was instantly; Feli always tapped the wood so quietly that I didn’t notice half the time, and Papa practically pommeled the poor door so heavily that it shook. This must be Antonio’s knock: a rhythmic, lithe pattern that sounded so musical and skillful that I was almost convinced for a second it must have been some sort of indication of identity for his contacts on past missions. 

Sure enough, when I opened the door, Antonio stood eagerly outside, eyebrows high in that pitiful look of stifled hope, eyes wide and welcoming. His cheeks were slightly pink from all the wine he had drunk.

“Te quiero,” I breathed, unable to stop the first words that came to my head from rushing out. Antonio’s beam widened even more—if that were possible, at least. That delight in his eyes was intoxicating, infuriating. “That’s… that’s what the ring says,” I managed. Antonio nodded, looking extremely satisfied with himself and his miserable endeavors. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too!” Antonio exclaimed.

“Shut u… What?” Sly bastard. I couldn’t meet his gaze. “No, that’s what it means.”

“Yes, it is.”

Antonio looked ready to discuss various Spanish phrases well into the night, but before either of us could manage another word, Papa appeared behind Antonio. I shoved the ring into my pocket, praying that he hadn’t heard any of that conversation.

“Roma!” Antonio exclaimed as he noticed him. I could barely detect the smothered nervousness in his voice. 

“I thought you were going back to your room in town?” Papa asked, feigning civility.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes!” Antonio agreed. “Yes, I was just saying goodbye to Lovino.”

Papa practically dragged Antonio to the door, accompanied by a flurry of aggressively friendly goodbyes and niceties. “Yes, yes,” he said. “And make sure to come around whenever you’re around. Our home is your home, my friend.”

“Of course!” Antonio smiled, clearly ignorant of the distrust laced in Papa’s words and contained in his eyes. Having been raised by him, however, I could see it instantly. “Stay safe, Feli.” Antonio pulled Feliciano into a hug. 

“Visit again soon, Antonio!”

Antonio turned towards me, a gentle smile spreading on his face. His voice dropped almost imperceptibly. “Goodbye, Lovino.” 

Papa quickly grabbed Antonio’s arm and steered him insistently toward the front door before kissing his cheeks forcefully in farewell. “Until next time!” he said. “Oh, and Antonio, tell me. Can you sing?”

“Sing? Why?”

“Because if you look at my son like that again, I will castrate you.”

My mouth fell open. “Papa!”

Antonio’s face went blank before Papa began laughing raucously, and he joined in nervously. 

“No, no…” Papa laughed as he clapped Antonio on the shoulder. “But Antonio, really…” Papa made a distinct slicing motion below the waist.

Antonio’s eyes widened and he backed up towards the door. “We’ll uh… we’ll talk soon, Roma,” he stuttered. “Good night…?” He tossed me a final brief gaze before hurrying outside and disappearing into the darkness. 

“So,” Papa said, “Who wants to listen to the radio?”

“Ooh, ooh!” cried Feliciano, running to collapse into his place on the couch.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, dragging myself behind him. “I’m leaving this fucking family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleni, my name for Ancient Greece, means Helen in Greek.   
> Ned = Netherlands  
> Emma = Belgium


End file.
